Nun Of That
by Lampito
Summary: Somebody-or something-is terrorising convents. Is it a religious loony, or is it a job for the Winchesters? Worse, Dean is convinced that somebody has put a chastity curse on him. And who is this mysterious woman who can bitchface (TM) Sam into submission, or throw Dean across a desk without breaking a sweat? (Not that he minds, usually, but hello, chastity curse...) COMPLETE
1. Prologue

The plot bunny pen is empty.

Seriously. I've been plot bunnyless for weeks now.

I've seen two, maybe three, lurking, but as soon as I look too hard, they disappear. You know how it is with plot bunnies - try to grab them too early and they just evaporate in a puff of inarticulate truncated dialogue... however, I managed to get this little bugger by the scruff, and wring an intro out if it. Sometimes, that's enough to get it started. As usual, no promises, but with a bit of prodding, we may just get a story out of this one. I petition the Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Droppers-In of the Jimiverse to be patient, and encourage the bunny. I'm going to be hellishly busy for the next couple of months - Real Life sucks the fat one - but maybe that will just prompt it to pester me while I'm trying to get some actual work done.

**Disclaimer:** They're not mine, or I'd cut Sam's hair, nail down Dean's collar, and throw them to the Denizens.

**Working Title:** Nun Of That

**Rating:** T. Medical authorities warn that Dean Winchester is a swearing hazard. And he fornicates.

**Summary:** Somebody - or something - is terrorising convents. Is it a religious loony, or a job for the Winchesters? Worse (according to him), Dean is convinced that somebody has put a chastity curse on him. And who is this mysterious woman who can bitchface (TM) Sam into silence, or throw Dean across a desk? Not that the Living Sex God *minds* being thrown across the desk, but only if there's mutually consenting beautiful natural acts involved, and the abstinence curse is really cramping his style...

**Blame:** Lies with the Denizens who have been pestering me to give a particularly vexing fanfic trope the Lampito treatment. I think you'll figure out which one I mean pretty quickly...

* * *

**Prologue**

_Topeka, Kansas 1974_

"My dear..."

Sister Agnes gazed down at what should have been a happy sight – a young mother cradling her baby close. But under these circumstances, it was never happy. And there was no easy way to do what had to be done here, so she went with straightforward.

"My dear, it is time."

"She's mine." The voice was soft, but full of steel, as the young mother held her gurgling infant close.

"We must deal in realities, my dear," the nun reminded her. "She will be raised by a young couple who cannot have children of their own. She will have a home, and love, and two parents who care deeply for her..."

"She's mine," the young mother repeated.

"You cannot raise a child properly, alone," the nun reminded her. "How will you live?"

"I'm not..." the woman stumbled into silence, twisting the ring on her left hand. Her parents were dead, and the child's father would be gone for another several months... "He promised me that after this deployment, he'd leave. He'll come back, he won't die over there, he _won't_, he'll come back, I'm not..."

"Married," the nun finished for her. "In this, you are alone." She put a reassuring hand on the young woman's arm. "Although you are certainly not the only one who finds herself in this position."

"I thought we weren't supposed to discuss it," the younger woman snapped, "We're so disgustingly sinful, we're supposed to hide away, and not horrify polite society with the evidence of our wanton and filthy behaviour."

She was surprised to hear the nun laugh, and looked up.

Sister Agnes's face wore an expression of compassion not often found in the other members of her order. Maybe it was because, unlike so many of her fellow sisters, she had not entered the convent immediately after school; she had lived in the world for many years before she had been called to take the veil, and no child of the 60s could help but have some sympathy for the situation in which the young unwed mothers in her order's care found themselves.

"She's not a result of sin, you know," Sister Agnes remarked, gesturing at the baby, "Despite what Mother Superior likes to say – at some length – on the topic. I do hope you realise that."

The young woman regarded her suspiciously.

"Oh. I know," smiled Sister Agnes, "I'm supposed to toe the party line with all of you. We all are. But you've heard it before – born out of wedlock, born of sin, disgrace, sin, guilt, repent, sin, unclean, ruined, guilt, sin, just stop me if you've heard this one before..."

"You'll get yourself thrown out talking like that," remarked the new mother.

"They can't afford to lose me," the middle-aged nun confided, with a touch of unnunly smugness. "Young women are discovering that they can have lives beyond the traditional handmaiden to God, or to man, or to somebody else, and the Mother House knows it." She smiled at the child. "She is clearly a child born of love. Who knows what this little one will do, what she will achieve?"

"She's mine," the woman said again.

"And there will be more," Sister Agnes told her. "Your young man, when he comes home, he will marry you, and you will have a family together as husband and wife. You will be in a position to raise children in a proper, loving home, with a mother and father to care for them. You will be in a position to do what is best for them. Isn't that what every parent wants, what is best for their child?"

"What would you know about it?" snapped the young mother.

"More than you might think," replied Sister Agnes quietly. "This is for the best, my dear, as hard as it is. It is what's best for her."

There was silence briefly. "Can I name her?" the younger woman asked, tears filling her eyes, "Can I at least name her? I was going to name my firstborn for my mother..."

"Her adopting parents will give her a name," the nun explained, "It's for the best, this way."

"Will they tell her?" The question was one that she'd heard so many times, and there was no soothing answer. "Will they tell her that she was adopted? Will they tell her that her mother loved her?"

"It will be up to the adoptive couple," Sister Agnes could never bring herself to tell the reassuring lies that some of her sisters used, "But if they do, she will know that you loved her so much, you gave her up so that she could have the best possible life."

"Five more minutes," pleaded the mother, holding her child close.

"Of course," smiled Sister Agnes sadly. "I will tell the office that she is ready."

The baby began to fuss, perhaps picking up on her mother's agitation. "I can't tell your father," she whispered, "It would upset him so much... and I know I'm supposed to forget you, but I won't. I'll just pretend you don't exist, but I won't forget you, Deanna."

The infant's face screwed up in the prelude to a wail, so her mother fought down her own tears, and rocked the baby, singing to her.

"Hey Jude, don't make it bad,  
Take a sad song, and make it better..."

* * *

Reviews feed the plot bunny. And make me pathetically happy. And give me something to talk about at my Review Addicts Anonymous meetings.


	2. Chapter One

_ZOMG, you are all so naise!_ *sniff sniff* You feed the bunny! *sniff sniff* You make me feel loved, wanted and needed! *sniff sniff* (As opposed to my paid employment in RL, to which I had to return today, Casdammit.) **You give me such feels! WAAAAAAAAAH!**

Ahem.

This particular plot bunny was a little bit reticent, but then, today, presumably because of all the kind reviews, it wouldn't shut up! I think this might be the bunny named Petunia, who was, if I recall correctly, released by Rayhne after the funeral of Kenneth the plot bunny who dictated 'Brains, Brawn, Beauty and Rumsfeld'. (Which means, if we're lucky, her brothers Randolph, Nathanial, Jonathan, and Christopher may also be hopping around somewhere...)

* * *

NOW

**Chapter One**

_South Dakota_

As someone with English as his first language, Bobby was familiar with the phrase 'Well, now I've seen everything' as an expression of surprise and bewilderment, although amongst a younger demographic the saying had largely been replaced by 'doubleyou tee eff?'. He never used it himself. Partly because, as a Hunter and a Man of Knowledge, he was keenly aware that there were things that walked the world he hadn't seen, and hopefully never would. And partly because he knew the Winchesters.

Exposure to the Winchesters had cultivated in Bobby a certain resistance to surprise in the way that exposure to constant wear will produce calluses on bare feet. Their antics had reset the threshold of his WTFometer to the point where something that would send any ordinary person into paroxysms of disbelief and confusion would merely elicit a sigh, a barely cocked eyebrow, and a resigned instruction of "All right, ya idjit, I'll get the tweezers/the turpentine/some towels/the bolt cutters/the bath running/the castor oil/the number for the plumber/the disinfectant/a clean shirt/some pants/the tissues and you can tell me later what happened..."

For example, if any ordinary person was just finishing dinner when they received a call from someone who was to all intents and purposes their son, saying basically 'Hi, my brother has a nasty wound in his leg that needs professional medical attention because a job went south but I can't take him to a hospital or clinic because the police are looking for us so I'm doing about twenty over the speed limit through fading light with no lights on see you soon', they would probably have a question or two, such as, OH MY GOD THE POLICE WHAT THE FUCK WHY ARE THE POLICE CHASING YOU WHAT'S HAPPENING WHAT'S GOING ON OH MY GOD OH MY GOD WHAT ARE YOU DOING DID YOU REMEMBER TO PAY YOUR INSURANCE THE POLICE OH MY GOD NOW I'VE SEEN EVERYTHING then forget all about dinner and run around in circles flapping their hands up and down.

Bobby, however, merely sighed, and replied "All right, ya idjit, just get that idjit here in one piece, I'll get the doc here, and you can tell me later what happened", then contacted a doctor who was sympathetic to his extra-curricular activities. He then finished his dinner, cleared the table, put on a pot of strong coffee and did the washing up, because experience had taught him that a) crises are generally better dealt with on a full stomach, b) the solid old varnished wooden surface made an entirely serviceable operating table, c) doctors have coffee drinking tendencies remarkably similar to Hunters, and d) a mixture of green beans, mashed potato, ketchup and mustard left overnight will accrete into a conglomerate harder than anything known to the cement production industry and require excessive effort to remove the next day, even if the dogs were allowed to give the affected crockery a pre-wash rinse. Such is the wisdom of a Man Of Knowledge.

When the Impala skidded into the yard in a spray of gravel, he didn't bat an eyelid.

When Sam got out and half dragged, half carried his wincing and protesting brother to the door, as Jimi the half-Hellhound Rottweiler trotted anxiously behind them honking soothingly on Oinker Stoinker the blue squeaky pig toy, he didn't ask anything.

When he noticed that Dean was wearing a sequin-spangled pair of tights, he didn't say a word - after all, he had in times past seen them drag each other into his house, in need of medical attention, covered in chocolate (Dean), covered in marshmallow (Sam), covered in chocolate and marshmallow (Dean), wearing a zebra print leotard (Sam), wearing a Girl Scout uniform (Dean), wearing a Sailor Moon outfit (Sam), in a catsuit (Dean), in a wetsuit (Sam), in a pirate suit (Dean), in a gorilla suit (Sam) and in his birthday suit (Dean) – he just held the door open so they could hustle through to the kitchen.

"So, let me guess," mused Bobby, "You went after the unquiet spirit of a dead magician, and in order to draw him out, Dean put on the tights, called himself Tracey, and danced around making jokes about how short and useless the guy's wand was?"

"The Amazing Rhonda," supplied Sam by way of explanation, helping Dean onto the table, "Knife Thrower Extraordinaire, and vengeful spirit. And of course, The Amazing Deano, Professional Target Extraordinaire, had to go trawling himself as bait..."

"I fit the tights," Dean somehow managed to smirk and grimace simultaneously, "And it takes a man as secure as me in his masculinity to wear tights like thes-OW!"

"Sorry," said Doc Taylor, a woman of around Bobby's age with a no-nonsense air about her as she removed the makeshift dressing around Dean's leg. "From the look of this, you're lucky you still have a masculinity to be secure about, a bit higher and you'd have been auditioning for boy soprano. I'm afraid that these tights will never perform again, though."

"That's okay," Dean did the grin/grimace thing again, "I was planning to salt and burn 'em anyway. The very existence of a pair of spangly men's tights threatens to lower the general population's testosterone levels, excepting the Living Sex God, of course. Although I think Sam might just have had his heart set on them when I'd finished with them, I think he wanted to make some pretty scrunchies for his hair..."

"I so do NOT want your hand-me-down sparkly tights," muttered Sam.

Doc Taylor frowned at the wound. "This is going to need suturing that's beyond superficial tissues," she pronounced. "For the record, I'd rather be doing this in theatre." She shoved a bottle of iodine disinfectant and a handful of gauze into Sam's hands. "You get that cleaned up."

"Hey, no touching the merchandise, you perv," Dean instructed through gritted teeth.

"Don't flatter yourself, jerk," griped Sam, wiping away blood.

Painkillers were administered, the wound was cleaned to Doc's satisfaction, and she began to suture.

"All right then, Amazing Deano," began Doc Taylor, "You got yourself a nasty laceration here..."

"It's okay," Dean smiled sunnily, "The watermelons will take out the lamps tomorrow if they go twang too early."

"He, uh, get's kind of, um, loopy with painkillers," explained Sam with a pained expression.

"You don't say," remarked Doc. "Well, your unquiet spirit did something of a number on your sartorius, so..."

Dean looked thoughtful. "I had one of those when I was little," he announced. "I broke the end off, and stuck the ducky up my nose!" He looked around proudly, like a child announcing he'd been given the part of Sheep Number Three in the kindergarten nativity play.

"It's a muscle in your leg, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes with a Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean).

"Is the purple bit still fluffy?" asked Dean anxiously. "I can't yodel the daisies if the purple bit doesn't stay nice and fluffy, and soft..."

"It's beautifully fluffy," Doc went on without missing a beat as she handed over some antibiotics, "But in order to keep it nice and fluffy, you have to take these twice a day until they're all gone..."

"I don't know if the parakeets will dance for those," he said doubtfully, eyeing the packet of antibiotics, "They don't like getting custard on their boots."

"...Keep the dressing dry, and make sure the wound stays clean..."

"Turnips!" Dean burst out. "Turnips! With feathers! And the Rabbits go to Mars!"

"Sounds like one o' them strange bands," muttered Bobby, "Ya idjit."

"...And stay off that leg for at least a week..."

"Idjits in space," declared Dean portentously. "Bobby put them there, because they kept driving their algebra balloons through his Serbian toupee." He leaned in, somewhat clumsily, to whisper to her. "He hates that," he told her.

"Oh, God," moaned Sam, "Can you leave us some sedatives?"

"The painkillers I'm going to leave for him are pretty strong," Doc Taylor pointed out, "So he probably won't need anything to help him sleep."

"Who said they were for him?" Sam practically wailed.

"You have eyes like crusty gyrating gerbils," Dean sighed, smiling at Doc, "Will you marry me?"

"Not unless you straighten out, or I get a lot drunker," Doc told him firmly.

Dean looked disappointed, then hopeful. "Would you like to touch my winky?" he asked.

"Would you like to sew his mouth shut?" asked Bobby, as Sam choked on a mouthful of coffee and his expression arranged itself into Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't_ Believe_ You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!)

"I could put it in a splint, maybe," offered Doc, "Since I'm also instructing you to refrain from sex for the next two weeks."

That sentence seemed to have the same effect on Dean as a bucket of ice down the shorts might do.

"What?" his face was a picture of astonished horror. "But... the liquorice umbrellas! And the yellow flashing monkey noses! I can't do that! I'm the Living Cucumber God!"

"Idjits in space is starting to sound pretty good just about now," Bobby mused, "Launched via boot applied to the ass module..."

"Noooooo!" howled Dean in protest. "I'll diiiiiiiiie!"

"No you won't," Doc snorted in amusement. "That muscle is in exactly the wrong place, so you can't go, shall we say, overtaxing it in the heat of the moment. That is not a place where you want a big chunk of scar tissue forming adhesions, and setting you up for a chronic pain problem. And nobody ever died of not having sex."

"Female ferrets," Dean replied promptly, "If they don't have sex, they die. They die, they turn up their fluffy little toes, and they die of virginity..." his eyes swam with tears. "That's so sad..."

"Dean, you are not a female ferret, and you are not, under any circumstances, in any reality, in any danger of contracting virginity," snapped Sam, "And you will do what Doc says in order to heal up properly."

"He's bossy," Dean humphed, his bottom lip coming perilously close to a pout.

"Don't worry," Bobby assured Doc Taylor, "We'll make sure he keeps himself nice. It won't be the first time he's needed savin' from himself."

"We could do with some down time anyway, while I find our next job," Sam added, helping his brother off the table. "Something that won't require, tempt or excuse the Living Sex God and his after-dark activities. Come on, bro, let's get you upstairs."

"What about if I promise to let her go on top?" asked Dean hopefully, leaning perilously to starboard.

"No. You heard the doc."

"What about if I promise not to do it standing up?"

"No."

"What about if I promise to do it on an air mattress?"

"No!"

"What about if we do it on a waterbed?"

"No!"

"Tyre swing?"

"NO!"

"Hammock?"

"Dean! Shut! Up!"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

_Colorado_

Mother Superior Emily, in her sixties and Mother Superior of the convent of St Clare, looked up when she heard the knock on the door. "Come in."

"You wanted to see me, Reverend Mother?" The sister at the door was not a young woman, but she wore the habit of a novice.

"Ah, Sister Felicity, do come in," smiled Mother Emily, consulting the paper before her, "I have some news concerning your mission work placement. I have approval from the Mother House for you to go to our house in Virginia, to assist the religious sisters there in their work with their rehabilitation services..."

A pair of green eyes bored disconcertingly into Mother Superior. "This is a test, isn't it?" It was a statement, not a question.

Mother Emily didn't flinch. "In this life, my girl, everything is a test," she said wryly. "And an opportunity. To practise obedience and humility. You could think of it as a wonderful chance for some professional development."

"Sounds familiar," muttered Sister Felicity, "I'm sure that I had a sergeant tell me that when he posted me to the armoury for three months..."

"Really, Fic?" snorted Mother Emily, cocking an eyebrow and resorting to the nickname that usually signalled that she was having some difficulty in taking her novice completely seriously. "Tell me, did you stab anybody that time?"

"I never stabbed him!" Sister Felicity protested, "I was assisting Father Lucas in locking up, and they turned up demanding the money from the donations box, what was I supposed to do?"

"Well, I believe that someone, gosh, his name escapes me right now, started with J, I think, once proposed that you 'turn the other cheek'?," offered the senior nun with a deadpan delivery.

"They was threatening Father Lucas!" insisted Sister Felicity. "Father Lucas! Who's over eighty now! Anyway, he fell on his own knife," she went on. "I just... pushed him away."

"Several feet away, the police report said," Mother Emily pointed out.

"Just off the carpet. You know what a fuss Sister Horatia makes about the carpet," shrugged Sister Felicity. "She'd have a fit if it got bloodstains on it."

"And his co-offender just happened to break his own arm," went on Mother Emily.

"Exactly," agreed Sister Felicity.

"Of course," nodded Mother Emily. "After he hurled himself backwards into the communion rail."

"That's right," nodded Sister Felicity.

"After you prayed at him."

"Yes."

"And called upon the Almighty to 'send forth these wicked evildoers from God's house'."

"Yes."

"And when you waved your cross at him, he just upped, and, whoosh, flew backwards through the air, via divine inspiration."

"The power of Christ compelled him," declared Sister Felicity with a perfectly straight face.

"Why you do this to me, Dimi," muttered Mother Superior Emily. She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Novices had been so much more... conformable when she had entered the order. Of course, that was in an earlier time, when girls often came straight out of school, they didn't have lives and find their calling after beginning some other career. Difficulty with submission to the Rule, and leaving behind their previous worldly lives, was sometimes a problem with women taking a religious vocation at an older age. But if the order was to reject everybody who struggled, she reflected, every single one of us would've been out on our backsides at some point... "Sister Felicity," Mother Emily went on firmly, "This is not about any sort of... reprisal. This is all about you deciding whether this is really the life for you. That's what a novitiate is_ for_. And part of that life is going where you are sent, where you are needed. And Mother House is in the best position to decide that."

"Yes, Reverend Mother," replied Sister Felicity dutifully, in a tone that Mother Superior was sure would sound right at home being used to inform someone _Tonight, you die in your sleep._ "When do I leave?"

"In three days," Mother Emily told her, handing over the sheaf of paperwork. "I'm not completely heartless, you know," she added with a small smile, "And there is an element of self-preservation involved. Considering that your coaching has got the Skunks to the final for the first time in years... is that really an appropriate mascot for a junior baseball team?"

"They like it," Sister Felicity told Mother Superior, "Plus, their playing really did stink."

"Well, the Skunks would all up and murder me if I took away Sister Fic, their head coach and number one cheerleader, before the big game. Think of the fit that Sister Horatia would pitch if I was beaten to death by a group of ten-year-olds armed with baseball bats and moral outrage – all that blood and brain matter on the carpet..."

"They're good kids," smiled Sister Felicity, standing up to take her leave, "And they're going to win."

"Some might consider it cheating to have a nun praying for divine intervention," Mother Emily quirked an amused eyebrow at her most interesting novice, "It could be interpreted as an unfair advantage to have God on their side."

"Oh, no," Sister Felicity positively smirked as she paused in the doorway, "They're going to win because they have me on their side."

* * *

Feed little Petunia with reviews! So when we finally stomp her, she makes a really satisfying squelchy noise...

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice wearing the Peculiar Outfit Of Your Choice on the Kitchen Table Of Life!*

*For the purposes of solicting reviews, Castiel counts as an honorary Winchester, whether he turns up or not.**

**Crowley does not at any time count as an honorary Winchester, but I know that some of the Denizens are quite keen on him, so you may substitute him if you really must.


	3. Chapter Two

Ermagerd, the reviews! The feels! THE PLOT BUNNY! Speak, little Petunia, speak!

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Sam didn't mind soccer. He was a bit of a fan of soccer. He'd played a bit, when he could, when he was at school. He'd enjoyed it. He also approved of soccer, as a formal organised sport or an informal kick-to-kick activity between friends, on general principles, on the grounds that it got people outdoors, exercising and socialising, which was generally acknowledged by the medical community to be A Good Thing.

Sam didn't mind golf. He wasn't a fan, and didn't see the attraction in playing it himself but, again, any activity that wasn't immoral, illegal or bad for your cholesterol was okay by him – if it got people out for some healthy exercise and socialising, and they enjoyed it, it was A Good Thing.

He also understood that in theory it was generally deemed beneficial to let children make up their own games. They used their imaginations, had to negotiate to establish rules, and then, in the end, ran around outside, socialising and exercising. A Good Thing.

He would've been entirely supportive if Dean had ever decided that he wanted to play a bit of soccer just for fun. He would even have been supportive if Dean had decided to take some golf lessons just for fun – he would've laughed like a loon, yes, he admitted that, but he would've supported him. Hell, he'd be willing to caddy to watch Dean attempt to play golf.

However, he drew the line when Dean got bored with being out of action, and started to make up his own games...

"Winchester is lining up on the final green," Dean announced in his best sportscaster voice. "The wind has dropped – Sam didn't have the burritos for lunch – so this should be a straight shot..."

"Trying to work here, Dean," humphed Sam, making some notes then following another link.

"He selects his putter," Dean's commentary went on as he turned around the walking stick he'd been using, wielding it like a golf club. "The green is flat, but this could be a tricky hole..."

"If you're not going to do research, it would at least be helpful if you could go play on another course," Sam informed him.

"There's the hazard, the rampaging emo, it's claimed several players already with its merciless bitchfacing..."

"Dean," Sam's tone took on a warning note, "Seriously, I think I might have found..."

"FORE!" yelled Dean, giving Oinker Stoinker (the blue squeaky pig that was Jimi's favourite toy) a solid thwack with his cane, wending it scooting across the floor in the direction of Sam's chair. "It's headed straight for the net! Oh, no! There's Winchester, the crack keeper, nothing has gotten past him all season..."

"What?" Sam looked around. "Dean, what the hell are youuu AAAAAARGH!"

Oinker Stoinker shot under Sam's chair, hotly pursued by Jimi. The dog might've been half-Hellhound, but in the physical mortal plane, he was shaped like a Rottweiler. A very large, decidedly oversized Rottweiler. So when he shot under Sam's chair in hot pursuit of the toy, the effect was somewhat akin to a whale coming up underneath a boat.

"What the fuck?-!" yapped Sam from where he had been sent sprawling on the floor. Jimi triumphantly grabbed the toy, pausing briefly to kiss his Second on the nose whilst he was at floor level. "What the hell are you doing?"

"We're playing Pig-Soccer-Golf," Dean informed him, "But still no score. Jimi is a better goal-keeper than I am a putter."

"Well... don't!" snapped Sam, with a well-aimed Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled By Your Behaviour Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). Ow," he rubbed at his arm, "That hurt."

"Huh, don't you talk to me about pain and suffering," griped Dean, rassling for the squeaky toy with Jimi. "I'm dying here! I'm dying from boredom! I'm dying from lack of sex!"

"You could do something useful, and give me a hand here," Sam suggested.

"I can't sit still for long enough, my leg aches," Dean moaned, "It's not right, you can't tell a guy not to have sex and expect him to recover..."

"Dean, no person ever died from not having sex, all right?" Sam told his brother pointedly. "Female ferrets, yes, but not people!"

"Good thing for you, or you'd have died ages ago," muttered Dean. "But seriously, I'm not just any human, I'm the Living Sex God!"

"The Living Drama Queen, you mean," Sam snorted.

"Two weeks!" Dean practically shrieked in outrage, "Two weeks! That's, that's, that's, it's just unreasonable! I don't want my boys to turn blue and drop off like yours did years ago..."

"Oh, go jerk off then, you jerk!" snapped Sam, "And find somebody else to annoy!"

"I can't," Dean said sadly, "It kinda made my leg hurt too much, you know, when you get to the point where..."

"AAAAARGH!" Sam yodelled in horror, "Too much, Dean!"

"You're telling me," snorted Dean unhappily, "You probably don't know what it's like, to be lying there, with a boner that could split oak, and be completely unable to..."

"Too! Much! INFORMATION! Dean!" Sam slammed down his pen. "I wonder if Bobby has any potassium bromide," he wondered out loud, "I'm going to make a saturated solution of it and force feed it to you."

Dean sighed. "Where did I go wrong with you, Sammy?" he asked the uncaring universe, "Where did I go wrong that my baby bro grew into the world's tallest prude?" He lowered himself carefully into a chair, mindful of his damaged leg. "So, what have you got?"

"Not completely sure, yet," Sam replied, "But we're not going anywhere for a while, until you've healed up enough..."

"So I can watch my little brother's back," nodded Dean.

"...Because if I get trapped in the car listening to you complain about how badly you need to get your rocks off, there will be blood," finished Sam, "But I think there may be something here. A series of apparently unconnected events involving break-ins at church buildings and convents..."

"Convents?" Dean suddenly brightened up, "Convents, as in, full of nuns? Oh, Sammy, have you found us a job with nuns? I never should have doubted you..."

The thing is, there hasn't been anything stolen, and some of these places have items that could be readily sold for pretty good money, if that's what you were after."

"Could just be a religious loony, or an incompetent burglar," Dean theorised, pulling the map Sam had been marking towards himself.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. But there have been some confrontations with the intruders, too – the descriptions have varied, but a couple of the people who were witnesses said that the burglar had black eyes. Not dark eyes, but black eyes."

"Oh, great," groaned Dean, "Frigging demons." He studied the map. "This looks like it could be a search pattern," he declared, "Casting a wide net, but it's a systematic search. Could be more than one searcher. And it's being carried out by someone who knows what they're looking for, but not where to start. But searching for what?"

"Something associated with churches, or convents. Something specific, presumably, since nothing has been taken so far," shrugged Sam. "Whatever it is, they haven't found it yet."

"Some sort of holy item, then?" mused Dean. "An artefact, or a relic?"

"Maybe," Sam noted, "Hard to say."

"Whatever it is, if it is demons, they want it for something dishonourable," Dean said, "And it's our job to stop them. And save the nuns. Those wonderful, sweet, untouched, virginal women..."

"You don't have to be a virgin to be a nun," corrected Sam automatically. "Just celibate."

"That's even better," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "Riding a guy is like riding a bicycle – you can get out of practice, but you never forget."

"What the... how would you know that?" demanded Sam, vainly trying to derail his brother's relentless train of thought.

"Because I've been told by an ex-nun," Dean waggled his eyebrows in a fashion that was probably illegal in some of the more conservative states, "And it all came back to her pretty damned quickly, I can tell you. Just climb on, and start working those thighs..."

"Go and take a painkiller, Dean," instructed Sam, with a solid Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk).

"It's okay at the moment, it's not too bad," Dean shrugged.

"It's not for your benefit," huffed Sam.

"You makin' any progress?" asked Bobby, coming into the living room with two mugs of coffee.

"Well, this morning's boner went down eventually," Dean stated matter-of-factly, "But now with Sam talking about nuns, it's..."

"Oh, God," wailed Sam, "Can we lock him in the panic room?"

"Don't lock me in the panic room!" yelped Dean.

"Fine," snarled Sam, "I'll lock _myself_ in the panic room."

"If you do, give me a call," suggested Bobby, handing over the coffees, "I'll bring you some dinner. Maybe pizza, I can slide that under the door."

'Are you saying you'd rather sit in the panic room than listen to me try to educate you?" asked Dean in a hurt voice.

"Dean, I'd rather sit in the Cage than listen to you relate your exploits," griped Sam. "Especially now that the archangels have vacated it."

"You wound me, Sam," sighed Dean, sipping at his coffee as he sat on the sofa and reached for the TV remote.

"Not yet, but it's a possibility," Sam replied with a brittle smile.

"I got a couple of books that might help," suggested Bobby, "Might give us some idea about what they're after."

"That'd be great, Bobby," Sam smiled as the Winchesters' practically father headed for his study. He returned with some hardbound volumes in varying states of disrepair, and sat himself at the other side of the table.

"There may be something that predates white settlement in North America," Bobby noted, turning a page and frowning, "Europeans brought a lot of stuff with them to the New World."

"I might just have to get more information on these incidents," Sam said, flicking through several pages. "Hey, Dean, you want to make yourself useful and take one of these?"

"I'm busy," Dean informed him, stretching out on the couch, "Supervising."

"What?" Sam turned to see his brother concentrating on an infotainment show. "What the hell? Supervising?"

"Supervising," Dean nodded at the TV, "You see that llama there?"

"Llama?" Sam echoed incredulously.

"Uh-huh," Dean waved a hand vaguely at the screen. "The llama. With the pimples."

"Well, her hair is kinda frizzy, okay, but I don't think..."

"That llama," Dean intoned seriously, "Is planning something. Involving pickles in blue jello. And whirling carpet hats. Doorknobs. And zebras on acid that live in cakes in trees with scarves that go flappity flappity flappity flap..."

Sam sat in bewilderment, but Bobby just cocked an eloquent eyebrow at him. "You're doin' a fine job there, son," He told Dean, "So, you just keep on supervisin', and so long as we got you to keep an eye on that damned llama, we can get on with the job in peace."

"I'm on it," Dean nodded seriously, not taking his drooping eyes off the screen.

"He'll pitch a fit if he figures out you roofied him," Sam smiled later when Dean was snoring gently and cuddling Jimi, who had joined him for some sofa snuggles with his Alpha.

"Well, it stopped you pitchin' yours," reasoned Bobby. "Swings and roundabouts, boy."

"I think this might be a job for us," Sam decided, "But I'll need to find out more before we work out how to tackle it. If we just knew what they were searching for..."

"Well, it'll come to you," Bobby shrugged. "Not like he's fit to travel, let alone Hunt, like this."

"Try telling him that," humphed Sam. "He thinks he's fit enough to play Pig-Soccer-Golf."

"Get him to look at your map again, when you got more intel," Bobby told him, "He's good at pickin' out patterns that way. He'll most likely be able to tell you where they'll hit next."

"Yeah, he is good at that." Sam smiled at his big brother, then moved to pull a blanket over Dean. Dean sighed contentedly, and stroked Jimi's fur in his sleep. "I like you like this, bro," Sam said, "You're less disturbing."

"Hmmmm, your hair is really pretty," mumbled Dean to Jimi. Jimi humphed in contentment.

"Or at least, you're still disturbing, but you're quieter about it," conceded Sam, turning back to his research.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"And so in closing," the President of the parents' committee of the Skunks junior baseball team raised his glass of lemonade, "I would just like to congratulate the team again on a fantastic win, and once more, offer them my condolences for the impending departure of the most dedicated, most capable, and sometimes most scary coach they've ever had, Sister Fic." Applause went around the room once more, as Sister Felicity smiled, and raised her own lemonade glass. "Ladies and gentlemen, to the Skunks, this year's premiers!"

"To the Skunks!" enthused the audience of parents, players and supporters of the baseball team that had turned their form around under the watchful eye of Sister Felicity. They then turned their attention back to the large celebratory cake.

"Do you want some more cake, Sister Fic?" asked a small boy whose face was smeared with icing.

"Not for me, thank you," Sister Felicity replied, "Nuns are supposed to practise Temperance."

"What's Temperance?" asked another sticky boy.

"It means self-control, and not doing anything too much," replied the novice nun, "And that includes eating cake. No matter how yummy it might be."

"Ew," a third boy screwed up his face, "Temperance sucks."

"If God doesn't want you to eat any more cake, Sister Fic, how come He made this one so big?" asked a budding theologian with a confused frown.

"Well, for a start, God didn't make this cake," Sister Felicity answered, "It was made especially for the team by the bakery."

"It had a skunk on it!" the first boy chirped. "I got the nose!"

"That's great," nodded Sister Felicity, "But the idea is, even though there might be a really big cake, God trusts us to try our best to behave like sensible people, and not eat too much. So, we have to do our best to warrant His trust."

The proto-theologian thought about that. "So, did the Devil make the cake, then? To tempt people?"

Another boy looked confused. "The Devil works at Boyd's Bakery?" he queried.

"My oldest sister worked there during vacation," the skunk-nose-eater informed them, "And she said that it's as hot as hell even early in the morning."

"The Devil uses apples, not cakes, you dumbass," scoffed another would-be scholar of the Good Book.

"Language," Sister Felicity corrected automatically, thinking that it wasn't such a bad thing that she'd be gone before they had a chance to ask during their next religious instruction lesson whether there were baked goods in Hell, and Sister Patricia would be stomping into Mother Superior's office and demanding to know what in blazes she had been telling those kids this time. "You know, I think I might be able to master another small slice of temptation."

"I'll get you a piece of skunk!" the eater-of-the-nose assured her, trotting back towards the cake table.

"What about nuns doing Temperance?" asked the theologian-in-training.

"Ah, well, I'm not a proper nun yet," Sister Felicity tried not to smirk, "I'm only a novice. Which is like having a learner permit – people expect me to screw up."

"Do you have to go, Sister Fic?" pleaded he-who-knew-about-apples-of-temptation.

"I'm afraid so," she told him, "That's part of the job, to go where I'm sent."

"What will your new job be?" asked the first one, returning with a small slice of skunk.

"Basically, I'll be helping people who are having trouble with Temperance," she replied, "People who drink too much, or make themselves sick with drugs. Stuff like that."

"If we make ourselves sick with cake, can you stay with us instead?" one of her players asked hopefully.

She smilingly told him that no, that wouldn't work.

She took her leave shortly afterwards, and returned to her room to pack her few belongings. As she was packing, one of the younger nuns, Sister Kate, knocked at the door.

"Sister Felicity? All ready to go and help save the more wayward of the flock?" Her voice held sympathetic amusement.

"Last time I had to deal with people like this, they were usually trying to shoot me, stab me, bribe me, or otherwise ruin my evening," sighed Sister Felicity. "It was so much clearer beforehand. Grab, thump, arrest. Cleaning up the mess afterwards? There's a reason I didn't go into social work to start with."

"You could petition Mother House to find you some nice juicy lepers, maybe," suggested Sister Kate.

"No, only good nuns get to sail off and minister to the chronically ill," Sister Felicity pointed out. "Haven't you seen 'The Nun's Story'?"

Sister Kate laughed. "What are you doing here, Fic?" she asked. It was more of a rhetorical question, one that had been asked of Sister Felicity on a number of occasions, with varying degrees of exasperation.

"Hoping that if I hang around for long enough, one day I'll wake up looking like Audrey Hepburn," she replied. "And if I told you, you wouldn't believe me."

"I heard a voice," offered Sister Kate, "My mother wanted me checked for psychosis."

"Well, an angel visited me," said Sister Felicity, "And I tried to arrest her for stalking."

"Really?" Sister Kate cocked her head. "What did she look like?"

"Sister Felicity paused before answering. "A bit like my third grade teacher, only she didn't smell quite as funny."

Sister Kate laughed again. "Well, I'm actually here to drop this off," she proffered a letter, "Otherwise, it could take weeks to catch up with you."

"Thank you, Sister Kate." Sister Felicity took the letter, thinking it must be something further to do with her redeployment, until she saw that it was postmarked from Kansas, at which she tore it open.

_Dear Sister Felicity_

_I apologise for taking so long to reply to your request, but I'm sure you can understand that such matters must be handled with the greatest of delicacy, as the law of the land and of the Church is sometimes ambiguous in such matters._

_Regarding your request, I'm afraid that the records from that era are somewhat patchy. Given the prevailing sentiments of the time - the belief was that a clean break from the birth mother was best for children being adopted, and the young woman giving it up - I suspect that no great trouble was taken to preserve them when the old building was refurbished. Certainly, I was not able to locate any records in the archives of births taking place at that time._

_No doubt this is a disappointment to you, and I am sorry. The only thing I can suggest is that you seek permission to speak to one of the retired nuns, who may have worked during that time, and may remember something._

_I wish you well in your search,_

_Sister Glenda Shields, administration and archives_

* * *

The Reviews seem to be working - Little Petunia just wouldn't shut up today. And they are also the Cute Personalised Celebratory Decals on the Cake Of Life!

What?

Oh, all right, they're the Winchester Of Your Choice Covered In Icing Needing Your Assistance In The Living Room Of Life too. You Reprobates.


	4. Chapter Three

Go, Petunia, go!

* * *

**Chapter Three**

"I've identified more incidents that I think might be linked to our convent hits," Sam told his big brother over breakfast.

"Be still my beating heart," griped Dean, poking listlessly at a piece of bacon.

"I've marked 'em all on the map, and drawn up a list of dates, so maybe you could take a look," Sam went on, "Do your pattern recognition thing."

"Whatever," Dean muttered, pushing the bacon around the plate. Jimi whuffed, and butted against his Alpha, who patted him absentmindedly.

"This could be a job for us, bro," Sam persisted, "I was wondering witchcraft, but I've read some more reports, and it sounds more like demons..."

"Yeah, yeah, demons," sighed Dean. "We'll go kill 'em, or exorcise 'em, or you know, deal with it."

Sam paused at his brother's lacklustre response. "Ganking things, Dean!"

"Yeah, okay."

"We can drink beer while we wait to gank the things."

"Yeah, beer."

"Nuns, Dean, nuns!"

"Yeah, you said, Sam."

"Strippers! There's probably a bar with strippers!"

"Probably."

Sam pulled out all the stops. "Ganking things then drinking beer with stripper nuns, Dean!"

"I guess." Dean sighed again, and prodded at his bacon unenthusiastically.

Sam peered at his brother suspiciously. "Dean," he began suspiciously, "Are you not feeling well? You're not running a fever, are you? Do we need to get back to Doc Taylor for another course of antibiotics?"

"No, the leg's healing up pretty good, not infected at all," Dean replied. Jimi whined, left the kitchen briefly, then returned with Oinker Stoinker. He sat by Dean's chair, and honked soothingly.

"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam pressed, "You don't want to eat bacon, you look like a kid who's had his favourite toy crushed in front of him and been told that he's getting tripe and Brussels sprouts for lunch." Dean stared at his plate. "Come on, big bro," Sam tried in a softer voice, "What's the matter?"

Dean turned miserable eyes on Sam. "It hurts, Sammy," he said quietly. "My leg, it hurts. And it's... getting me down."

Sam smiled fondly at his big brother. An admission like that from Dean, that pain was getting to him, was an amazing demonstration of trust, and meant more to Sam that he could articulate – Dean rarely, if ever, dropped the he-man act, in front of anybody, including is baby brother. Especially his baby brother. "Why didn't you say something?" he chided gently.

"I didn't want to bother you," Dean looked away unhappily. "It's not something I thought you needed to know about. I'm not supposed to worry you with this stuff..."

"Dean, I'm your brother!" Sam burst out. "Of course I want to know! So, are the painkillers not helping?"

"They're okay," Dean shrugged, "The leg isn't really giving me trouble, mostly. Just when I try to jerk off. But if I take enough painkillers to stop it hurting when I jerk off, they make me sleepy. I can't jerk off if I'm falling asleep."

"Well, perhaps... _what_?" Sam's brain pulled a handbrake turn. "What do you mean you can't jerk off if you're falling asleep?"

"Even the Living Sex God has his limits," Dean offered Sam a small wan smile.

Sam stared at his brother. "So," he started in disbelief, "You're depressed and moping because your leg hurts when you try to jerk off?"

"I got so close," Dean said mournfully, "This morning, I thought, yes, today's the day, but then, well, you know how things start to tense up when you get to the point where..."

"Gaaaaaah!" went Sam, shooting a Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual) at his brother. "That's it? I thought there was something really wrong!"

"It _is_ something really wrong!" protested Dean. "I told you, going without for so long, it's not normal, it's not natural, it's not possible! It's not right!"

"I don't believe this," grumped Sam, dropping his head into his hands. "It's ridiculous."

"I know," Dean agreed, "Totally ridiculous. The Living Sex God, reduced to this, this, this pitiful state of non-gratification. Somebody has put a chastity curse on me."

Sam glared at him. "Dean, your leg got injured, and a muscle in your thigh was lacerated!"

"Exactly!" declared Dean, "What was the chance of me getting injured in a place that would make it hurt to get off, huh?"

Sam considered that. "Given what we do," he decided, "It's amazing that it doesn't happen more often."

"It's a curse," Dean insisted, "Some asshole witch, or asshole demon, or some other asshole fugly we've dealt with is taking a terrible revenge. Like a total asshole."

"Wow. It just doesn't make sense, does it?" nodded Sam, radiating confusion. "The idea that you could be so annoying that somebody would want to curse you, it just doesn't make any sense at all. I confess myself completely baffled as to how anybody could possibly think that you were that annoying. It's one of life's great mysteries."

"What are you two idjits hollerin' about now?" asked Bobby as he came into the kitchen.

"Dean would like your help to lift the chastity curse that he's sure has been placed on him," Sam replied in a tone dripping with scorn. Dean looked up with a terribly sad expression on his face that was remarkably similar to the one that Jimi wore when he was required to get into the bath.

Bobby gave Dean a long look. "Boy," he announced finally, "I am goin' to start referrin' to you as Dean the Diaper, because you are so full of shit."

"Nobody understands my pain," moaned Dean, as Jimi squeaked supportively on Oinker Stoinker again.

"Dean, it's not that we don't understand how important sex is to you," Sam told him in a compassionate voice. "It's just that we don't care."

"Fine," growled Dean, "I'll look at your map, and look for your pattern, and we'll go Hunt down whatever is molesting nuns... ohhhh, molesting nuns..."

"Should I have a bucket of cold water handy?" asked Bobby solicitously.

"Maybe just a strategically placed ice pack," mused Sam, "To take the swelling down."

"I hate you both so much."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sister Felicity kept her head bowed during the prayer, but her eyes roamed the room; old habits died hard. Especially with people like... this.

Charity and obedience, she reminded herself, charity and obedience, this was an opportunity to practise charity and obedience. She would be obedient, and think charitable thoughts...

_Half the people in this room are lying, manipulative con artists_, suggested the treacherous little voice in her head.

Okay, the charity bit needed more work, but the obedience bit...

"Try not to stab anyone, Fic," Mother Superior Emily had instructed her with an amused expression, "And don't pray so hard that anybody gets thrown across the room, the power of Christ notwithstanding. Don't let it compel anybody at high speed."

Yep, having more luck with the obedience. Definitely had not stabbed anybody since she'd arrived in Virginia, nor had she been responsible for anybody going flying across the room (with or without divine intervention). No sir, Reverend Mother sir, no stabbing or throwing here. Although I reserve the right to fantasise about it in the privacy of my own head.

She knew that it made sense: divert drug users away from incarceration and into some sort of rehab, or make it a condition of parole to make sure that they weren't just thrown out of The System and right back into their old habits. Doing something, _anything_, had to be better than doing nothing. She thought that some of them were genuinely in hope of kicking their addictions – but she also knew that others were using it as a soft option, abusing the process and thumbing their noses at the system.

Personally, laws notwithstanding, she didn't have any problem with people putting substances of dubious origin, questionable purity and dangerous pharmacology into their bodies if that's what they wanted to do. A person's body was their own business. Besides, as somebody who had once had the dubious honour of sinking more shots inside an hour than a 220-pound SWAT officer (AND she'd practically carried him outside and tucked him in with the tarp in the bed of his pick-up afterwards), she didn't feel as though she was in a position to lecture anybody about cultivating purity in the temple of one's body. No, you want to do that to yourself, it's your own business.

It was what she knew they were prepared to do to other people in order to get the money to finance their personal temple defilement that made her hackles go up.

And she did know. She'd read their files. And, where she deemed it necessary, she'd gone digging for more information (that was one thing people never seemed to realise about cops – even after they'd retired and moved interstate, they networked harder than the most ardently amoral share traders, or anaemic Facebook addicts). She'd only been here about a week, and had already mentally divided the attendees into the Really Tryings and the Smug Scumbags. The sheep and the goats. Or, as she thought of them, the sheep and the wolves. Except that was probably unfair to wolves, who only preyed on other animals out of absolute necessity in order to survive. They didn't lie, rob, swindle, burgle or cheat without any thought for the consequences. They didn't damage or destroy other wolves' lives through their own selfishness. And they certainly didn't attempt to justify their actions by combining a sense of entitlement whilst wallowing in self-pity...

Okay, so the charity thing was_ really_ going to need some work. Maybe once she'd worn the habit as long as she'd worn the uniform...

"Of course you feel like you're floundering," Mother Superior Emily had once told her, "We're imperfect beings grasping after God's perfection. He throws us all in at the deep end, Fic – but He doesn't throw you out any further than He knows you can swim."

_Oh God,_ Sister Felicity prayed silently, _Please, please, please, send me some water wings..._

She focused her attention on Sister Germaine, the elderly and motherly nun who oversaw the group rehab discussion sessions. Sister Germaine had a face like a welcoming currant bun, a matronly physique that had been factory designed to give out reassuring hugs, and an aura of unconditional love that could knock over the most cynical DA at ten paces. She managed to broadcast the message that she thought everybody was worthy of God's and society's acceptance in the megawatt range just by smiling. It was amazing. It was inspiring. It made Sister Felicity wonder if Sister Germaine toked occasionally.

"Sister Fic?" Sister Germaine used the nickname that managed to follow Felicity through her whole life. "Would you like to choose a reading for us?"

_...A kickboard, a pool noodle, a rubber duck, anything, or at least some of whatever Sister Germaine has been smoking..._

Sister Felicity smiled back. "Yes thank you, Sister Germaine," she replied, lifting her own Bible. "I've been thinking about the nature of caritas – charity - and the wonderful description in Paul's first letter to the Corinthians. I also like this one because it gives me an excuse to say 'apostle epistle' out loud, which for some reason always made the Sunday schoolers laugh like loons..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"East coast," Dean announced, looking from Sam's list of dates to the extensively annotated map in front of him. "Here. Virginia. That's where they'll be headed next."

"That narrows it down," Sam commented, peering at the laptop.

"So, how's the research going?" Dean asked.

"Well," Sam began, "Something else I found out about the places that have been hit is that they're not cloistered convents; they have all operated as orphanages or schools at some point in their history..."

"No, no, no," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "What have you found out about my chastity curse? How do we break it?"

"Dean," Sam muttered through clenched teeth, "There is no chastity curse on you!"

"How do you know," Dean demanded imperiously, "If you haven't done any research?"

"I have been doing research!" Sam snapped, "Into a real case, not something out of your dementedly libidinous imagination."

"It's real, Sam," insisted Dean, "It's painfully real! I took the stitches out of my leg this morning, and it's healed up well, and I thought, great, it's better, although it's gonna leave a scar, but that's okay, chicks dig scars, especially when I tell 'em how I got it, saving a cute fluffy baby kitten from a collapsing building..."

"There is no curse on you, Dean," Sam tried again, "Although I'm starting to think that there might be one on me."

"There totally is!" Dean was adamant. "I thought, great, healed up, all systems go, and I got this close to jerking off, but it still hurts like hell when..."

"It's perfectly normal for deeper muscle tissues to take longer to heal," Sam pointed out with a Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often). "And it hasn't been two weeks yet."

"I'm disappointed, Sam," Dean told his brother in a put-upon voice, "I'm disappointed more than angry. You're the one who's Mr Touchy-Feely-Let's-Talk-About-It-And-Hug-It-Out, and I come to you with a deeply personal, highly distressing and very serious problem..."

"I'm not hugging you until you've washed your hands," Sam cut him off sharply.

"There must be something I can do to break it," Dean muttered. "It's some witch that's done this, some witch that's annoyed because I messed with her voodoo, or some warlock resentful of the awesome talents of the Living Sex God."

"Certainly not envious of his humility," noted Sam.

"False modesty sucks," Dean sniffed disdainfully. "Anyway, the way these things seem to work, there's always something really unpleasant that has to be done to break the curse." He hummed in thought. "What if I have to sit through an opera? What if I have to do something unmanly, you know, like wear a dress?"

"Well, there was that Girl Scout uniform that time," Sam reminded him.

"It could be something really bad," Dean waved his arms around, "What if I have to eat a whole plate of broccoli? What if I have to... oh, no, what if I have to kiss a chick who's totally unhot?"

"Gee, because of all the things that've ever happened to you, that would be right up there in your top five Worst Things I've Ever Experienced," Sam intoned seriously. "Gosh, kissing an unhot woman – throw me to the Hellhounds, have me beaten to a pulp by an archangel, kill my baby brother, wreck my beloved car, make me give birth to a non-existent assbaby, send me to an alternative future reality where the Devil wears my little brother and breaks my neck, but no, no, no, don't make me kiss a woman who's not hot enough!"

"I think you underestimate the trauma that can be sustained by contact with a moustache," Dean said snippily. "Have you ever been kissed by a cougar grandmother with a moustache? It'll scar a guy, bro."

"There are days, Dean," muttered Sam, "When I worry that, in some ways, you are so shallow you couldn't drown a snake." He pushed the map towards Dean. "Look, there are a number of convents in Virginia, sort of east, where should we start?"

Dean let out a long-suffering sigh, and with the air of a martyr preparing to greet the peckish lions, studied the map again. "There," he said, "St Clare's is the one most likely... oh, get this," he smiled, "It's in Winchester, Virginia."

"Sounds like a good place to start then, Sam smiled back. "Provided your leg is actually healed up enough.

"It's looking good," Dean reiterated, "Definitely good enough to get on the road, and head for Virginia. And the convent. Full of nuns... hey, what if I have to corrupt a nun to break the curse? That would be beyond the capacity of most guys, but that asshole witch didn't know that she was tangling with the Living Sex God..."

Sam rolled his eyes. "We'll you're certainly a lot chirpier today than you were a week ago."

"What's not to chirp?" queried Dean sunnily. "My leg is just about healed, my nerdy baby bro has found us a job so I'll get to gank something fugly, plus, now he is apprised of the serious nature of the problem, my nerdtastic baby bro can do his laptop dancing and get on with researching how to break my curse..."

"Dean!"

"...Which means, beautiful natural acts are not far off." Dean sighed happily. "Some girls like to kiss 'em, you know. Scars. 'Kiss it better'. You'd know that if you'd go out and get some real live action with a real live woman occasionally. That one on the back of your thigh, the one that goes all the way up to..."

"Dean!" Sam shot his brother a double shot _Bitchface_ #5™ (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk). "Shut! Up! About! Getting! Laid!"

"You're right," Dean nodded unexpectedly. "I should shut up about it."

"Huh?" Sam was bewildered.

"Well, yeah," Dean went on, "Because have you ever noticed, that it's the ones that do it the least that often talk about it the most?"

"If only it really worked like that," observed Sam trenchantly, "You'd never say a word on the topic.

"Yeah," Dean smirked, "But you'd never shut up, bitch."

"Jerk."

Sam turned back to his laptop, then paused. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"How do you know how traumatising it is to be kissed by a cougar grandmother with a moustache?"

There was a moment of silence.

"Don't ask about it if you're not prepared to hug me."

Jimi picked up Oinker Stoinker, and honked reassuringly.

* * *

Ah, the unconditional love of a dog. When I'm feeling tired and run down, my Shepherd serenades me with Squeaky Headless Flea, her favourite human cheerer-upper. She used to use the real Oinker Stoinker, but unfortunately he expired during a tug-of-war quite some time ago; somewhere, I have a photo of the horrifying moment just before he underwent a traumatic bisection with fatal prolapse of the honker...

Reviews are the Dog With Any Proportion Of Hellhound Blood Of Your Choice Soothing You With The Squeaky Blue Pig Toy Of Life! (In the Jimiverse, you have thirty-one named ones to choose from. Oh, and Petunia says she'll dictate a special Winchester Of Your Choice Deleted Scene for anybody who can name thirty of them.)


	5. Chapter Four

Yes, yes, yes, it's a sister fic, about Sister Fic. I regret nothing.

So many depraved Denizens happy to help Dean break his curse. Good grief. Petunia the plot bunny will be dictating with her eyes closed. And I'll be transcribing with mine closed. It's a grod thnig that Ican touch tyhp,e...

Incidentally, right now Bundaberg, home town of Ronnie Shepherd (the Jimiverse's Crankiest Werewolf) has been hit by tornadoes, and is now subject to the worst flooding that parts of it have ever seen. It's home to Australia's most culturally significant rum distillery, producer of Bundaberg rum, a disgusting brew that's the preferred tipple of broke students and uncouth bogans across the country (I should know, I swilled enough of it in my yoof.) Aaaaaaaargh! I blame that bastard Al. Al Nino. He keeps messing with the weather, curse him...

* * *

**Chapter Four**

"Ah, Virginia," mused Dean, around slurping his coffee and drumming on the steering wheel along with the stereo. Behind the wheel of his beloved car, his annoying cheerfulness asserted itself. "It's been a while since we headed east. Do you remember that Hunt with an angry spirit and a poltergeist in the great big plantation style house?"

"I remember you having a very large and very solid period book-case dropped on you," replied Sam. "I also remember having to drag your protesting ass to the clinic to get possible internal injuries and a concussion treated."

"But we got the job done," Dean reminded him, shovelling up a handful of corn chips, and making a disappointed noise when the crinkling of the bag indicated that it was empty. "Oh, crap, we need more food."

"Dean, you only had breakfast a few hours ago!" Sam protested. "And you finished off the last of Bobby's bacon."

"Exactly!" agreed Dean. "Hours ago. So, we gotta get more food. Hey, J-Man, you want crumbs?" In the back seat, Jimi sat up and happily accepted the practically empty bag, shoving his head into it and enjoying himself enormously in the way any dog given an empty chip packet to lick out will enthusiastically do. "See? See how fast he's eating? Jimi would like some food too. Wouldn't you, huh?"

Jimi lifted his head, with the packet over it, and whuffed in an affirmative, if somewhat muffled, fashion.

"He's as bad as you," griped Sam. 'Except his table manners are marginally less disgusting."

"Come on, we don't want him to lose condition," Dean said, "He needs to keep up his strength. We'll need him if we're going to deal with demons. He can't do that if he's fading away."

"Dean, Jimi weighs around 170," Sam snarked, "He is not in danger of fading away at any time in the near future."

"And I'll make sure he stays that way," confirmed Dean. "Watch for an exit sign. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, Virginia, poltergeist and angry spirit tag team. One of the nurses at the clinic where you dragged me after I didn't need to go there, her name was Virginia, but that's not why I remember her, it's because she had this amazing waterbed..."

"Oh, God," moaned Sam, "You hooked up with a nurse from a clinic that treated you?"

"There's something to be said for doing it with a woman who's had formal instruction in anatomy," grinned Dean, "And who knows how to snap on a pair of gloves like she means it..."

"Gaaaah!" yelped Sam, "What the fuck? You were concussed! What were you doing hooking up when you were concussed?"

"That's just how awesome the Living Sex God is, Sammy," smirked Dean. "Don't hate me because I'm talented."

"I don't," Sam assured him with a Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One). "I hate you because you're disgusting."

They pulled into a town later, and found a diner where Sam picked at his laptop and his food while Dean groaned orgasmically over his fries.

"Ohh, you should have some of these," he told his brother, pushing another one around in the ketchup, "These are fantastic. I think my tonsils just came. Again."

"You're gross, Dean," Sam replied on auto-pilot, frowning at the screen.

"What's so damned interesting that it's more important than orgasmalicous fried food?" demanded Dean.

"Research," Sam answered tersely.

"How much more is there to know about nuns?" Dean wondered out loud. "They wear habits, they don't get any, and for some reason in films they often turn out to wear really naughty lingerie. Do real nuns wear naughty lingerie? I mean, wearing naughty lingerie would be okay, wouldn't it? Because nobody would ever know. You could wear naughty lingerie and still do chastity. Damn, what a waste..."

"It's not about nuns," Sam told him, "It's about your curse."

"...Because there's something sad about the thought of... huh?" Dean blinked, and stared at Sam. "My curse? I thought you didn't believe me."

"Well, I didn't," Sam managed to look apologetically sheepish. "To start with. But since you've been so adamant about it, I thought, it couldn't hurt to check it out. I mean, you're a Hunter, Dean, you've got damned good instincts for this sort of thing."

"Well, yeah," agreed Dean, somewhat taken aback.

"And you're always telling me, big brother is always right, so..." he waved a hand at the laptop. "I had a look at a couple of books that Bobby pointed me at, and it turns out, well, there is a kind of curse it might be." He turned a puppy-dog eyes face to Dean. "I'm sorry, bro, I should've taken you seriously, and gotten onto this earlier..."

"It's okay, Sam," Dean smiled, "Just remember next time, big brother knows best."

"Totally," Sam smiled back gratefully.

"So, what have you got?" pressed Dean.

"Well, to start with, I was barking up the wrong tree," Sam explained, peering at the screen. "I found several descriptions of 'unmanning' curses, but, uh," his face coloured slightly, "In your case, there's no suggestion of, um, you know, impotence..."

"Definitely not," smirked Dean.

"So it occurred to me that this must be something different," Sam went on hurriedly, "It's not intended to 'unman' you as such. That would be forcing chastity upon you. I think you were onto something when you wondered if it was a jealousy thing."

"That would be completely understandable," nodded Dean sagely, "After all, the Living Sex God is a hard act to follow. Very hard. Complete-lack-of-impotence hard..."

"Yeah, exactly," Sam continued, "So, I think that this curse is intended to make you inflict chastity on yourself. You have to act chastely to break the curse of chastity. Bobby was going to check out a couple of things for me, and I think... yeah, it's come through now... oh."

"Oh? Oh? What do you mean, oh?" demanded Dean anxiously. "Oh, as in, 'Oh, Bobby made a spelling mistake that's not like him', or 'Oh, we have to do a counter-spell that needs a hundred different ingredients and requires fluency in Swahili'?"

"Er, neither of those," Sam assured his brother, "It looks like my hunch was right. This curse is pretty straightforward to break, but...you're not going to like it."

"Oh, no," groaned Dean, "What do I have to do? Not wear a dress? I'm telling you right now, I am not getting my legs waxed this time, I got ingrowns in places I don't want to think about..."

"No, no, nothing like that," Sam assured him, "You don't have to do anything out of the ordinary, except act chastely for a day."

Dean gave his brother a long look. "Sam," he began, "Think about what you just said to me. 'Not do anything out of the ordinary', then 'act chastely'. Those two things are mutually exclusive."

"I know, I know, Living Sex God," Sam forestalled his protests, "But this page that Bobby sent me, the sentiment is pretty clear. 'The proude man, let his member stand proude, yet let hym bee chasteley humboled - but let hym bee worldly unworldly, for a tyme as from dawn to dawn and so shalle hys prowesse once more worldy bee'."

"Worldly unworldly?" Dean looked dubious. "You're doing it again. What were these old English dudes smoking when they wrote this stuff?"

"The way that the words are used has changed since this was written," Sam told him. "Basically, 'worldly' in this context means 'on the outside' – what the world can see – whilst 'unworldly' means naive, or, in this context, uh, chaste. So, it's saying, you have to give an appearance of being 'unworldly' – chaste – for twenty-four hours, and that will break the curse."

Dean's expression was astonishingly eloquent. "You might as well as tell me I have to grow wings and fly," he stated flatly. "How the hell am I supposed to not think about sex for twenty-four hours?"

"It's not quite that bad," Sam reassured him with a sympathetic smile, "Only on the outside, remember, what the world can see. So, you can think what you like in the privacy of your own head. You don't have to _think_ chaste, but you do have to _act_ chaste. So, you can look at women, and fantasise about them all you like, provided you don't do or say anything that might indicate what you're thinking about."

"That's it?" Dean blinked. "All I have to do is pretend that I'm chaste?"

"It might be tougher than you think," Sam warned him, "It doesn't just mean no picking up women: it means no flirting with them, no eye-sexing them, and no talking about it – for instance, telling me about Virginia and her waterbed would count as an outward indication of, uh, non-chastity. So, think about it as hard as you like, but keep your mouth shut."

"Huh." Dean snorted derisively. "This is going to be one of the easiest curse breakers I've ever had to do. By this time tomorrow, the Living Sex God will be ready to dazzle the ladies of Old Dominion with his awesome worldly prowess..."

"Yeah, twenty-four hours from that sentence," Sam humphed. "You can't go bragging about what the Living Sex God is going to do – it's not chaste."

"Yeah, okay," sighed Dean, fiddling with his watch to set a 24-hour countdown. "No problem. This time tomorrow, I will be a happier individual. Because of reasons."

"That's good," smiled Sam. He waved at Dean's plate. "You done?"

"Not quite," Dean grinned, "They got pie on the menu. I do not want to anger the Gods Of Pie by failing to make proper obeisance."

"Obviously," Sam rolled his eyes.

"I'm not kidding," Dean went on, "Don't mess with the Gods Of Pie – you'll be sorry if they call down terrible short crust juju on our asses... " he waved to the waitress. "Speaking of asses," he grinned, waggling his eyebrows in her direction.

"Dean!" Sam hissed. "The curse!"

"Huh? Oh, damn," Dean fiddled with his watch again, resetting the countdown as the waitress arrived.

"Can I get you something else?" she asked brightly.

"I'd like the blueberry pie, and another coffee," Dean smiled up at her.

"Sure thing," she noted it on her pad, "Would you like syrup drizzling?"

"Nah," Dean smirked rakishly, "I'm already sweet enough. Maybe on the pie, though."

The waitress laughed, and headed for the kitchen.

"Dean!" Sam snapped. "What the hell was that?"

"Watch and learn, Sammy," Dean grinned, "Because... oh, damn." His face fell, and he reset the countdown on his watch. "I don't suppose there's any point in trying to get her number, then? Damn." He reset his watch again.

"You're going to have to pay attention," Sam instructed him, "Or you'll never break this curse."

"I'm easing into it, Sam, I'm easing into it," Dean assured him. "Look, that's ten seconds already. I've gone a whole ten seconds without doing anything that might be considered unchaste. Fifteen seconds now. See? I can do this. Non problemo. Have a little faith, Sammy."

"I want to believe," sighed Sam.

"Just keep on believing, Sam. I'll have this thing broken before we hit Virginia. And then, when we hit Virginia, I can hit on Virginia..."

"Dean!"

"Oh, damn."

* * *

Come on, Petunia, dictate dat story!

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Joining You Chastely* For Blueberry Pie In The Cafeteria Of Life!

*You heard me. Chastely. Suck it up. Oh, all right, maybe just a modicum of syrup drizzling (mind the tablecloth).


	6. Chapter Five

Here in Victoria, I'm not in danger of being flooded out; on the Eastern seaboard of Oz, Up North is getting stormed and washed away, whilst Down South (that's me) is getting bushfired into charcoal. Go and google the Scared Weird Little Guys, and their inspiring tourism song, 'Come to Australia, You Might Get Killed'... do you lot still want me to write a story where the Brothers Winchester come Down Under? It coull be pretty damned short. I'm just sayin'...

Now, goooooooo Petunia! *shakes parsley pom poms*

* * *

**Chapter Five**

"So, what's our play on this one?" asked Dean just a tad too brightly. They had just crossed the Virginia state border, and the last couple of days had been... difficult.

"Well, St Clare's is not a cloistered order," Sam replied as he tapped at the keys. "They provide a lot of community services, which are pretty busy. I've got us booked into a drug diversion/rehab program, so we have a legitimate reason to be on the grounds at just about any time during business hours."

"Drug rehab?" Dean gave his brother a dubious glance. "Seriously? You want me to pretend I'm a reforming junkie?"

"They're really busy," shrugged Sam, "There weren't many options that could get us access at such short notice."

"There's not going to be, uh," Dean waved a hand vaguely, "You know, persons of a female nature, who are having personal difficulties and might kind of represent, you know..."

"An occasion of sin," supplied Sam. "That means, a person, place or thing which tempts a man to sin."

"Yeah, that," Dean nodded vigorously, "I think it would be best if I could just avoid any occasions of sin. Not that I've been having much luck with that so far," he added gloomily.

Sam had to concede that he was right; the waitress in a diner, the cashier at a check-out, the clerk at a motel desk, even a police officer directing traffic, the universe seemed to conspire to bombard Dean with attractive women who were keen to make conversation with the Living Sex God, maybe flirt a little, maybe leave a number, maybe extend an invitation... with a brittle smile, Dean had stared fixedly at a point between each woman's eyes, and brushed her off as politely as possible, leaving in his wake a number of women who were a little disappointed (and surprised to think that their usually reliable gaydar readings had been so far off).

"I told you going to a bar was a bad idea," Sam reminded him, checking the screen. "There are some female names on the enrolment list," Sam conceded, "It's co-ed. You'll just have to be strong."

"There has to be something else," Dean stated firmly, "Preferably with no female persons in it. We'll cover more ground if we split up anyway."

"The only other vacancies are in 'Men Questioning Their Sexuality'," Sam informed him.

"Like I said, it'll be safer if we stick together," Dean nodded sagely, "If we could be dealing with demons. Besides, I could never pull that off. The Living Sex God does NOT bat for the other team, and is definitely certain of his... oh, shit! Shit! Shit!" Dean thumped angrily on the wheel, then sighed, and re-set his watch. "Five and a half hours!" he raged, "I had five and a half hours of outward chasteness, and you had to go and wreck it! Damn you and your occasion of sin! AND you made me hit my car! I'm sorry, Baby," he crooned, patting the wheel, "Daddy's having a tough time at the moment..."

"Hey, what the hell did I do?" protested Sam. "You were the one who wanted to know what the other options were!"

"Well, you didn't have to tell me!" Dean shot back. "You could've lied!"

"You would just have told me to check again," Sam pointed out.

"Then you could've lied and told me that the only other vacancies were in, I don't know, 'Are You Unexpectedly Pregnant?', or 'Are You Thinking Of Becoming A Nun?', or 'Crochet For Beginners', or 'Tap Dance Your Way To Social Ridicule', or 'Are You A Repressed Vegetarian?'," humphed Dean. "You should've known!"

Sam glared back at his brother. "What was that about this being 'non problemo'?" he asked a little snidely. "You're an adult, Dean. Well, legally, if not mentally. You're supposed to be in control of your own actions. Seriously, how difficult can it be to go for twenty-four hours without doing or saying something unchaste? You really only have to do sixteen, if you allow eight for being asleep..."

"Okay, so it's harder than I thought it would be," Dean conceded grudgingly. "You have no idea how hard it is... oh, no," he turned a pleading look to Sam, "That doesn't count, does it?"

"Definitely not," confirmed Sam, "Because you were referring to the difficulty of the situation, not... anything else."

"Yeah, totally," Dean said quickly. His shoulders slumped in defeat, and he reached for his coffee. "It's not fair," he moaned, "It's so not fair, I have to act chaste for a whole twenty-four hours, and no matter where we stop, there are... female persons, and they say and do things that... are occasions of sin..."

"We could get you a little rainbow badge, and then they'll leave you alone," Sam pointed out in a reasonable tone.

Dean choked on a mouthful of coffee.

"I'm warning you, Samantha," he growled, "You make one more suggestion that suggests that I'm... of that suggestion, and I will make an impolite suggestion and back it up with putting my foot up your ass..." His eyes suddenly widened in panic. "Oh, God," he breathed, "You don't think... I mean... you know..."

"Absolutely not," Sam said firmly, "You were just telling me that you weren't happy about my idea. That's all. No other context there, no... occasion for sin at all."

"Right, right," Dean let out a sigh of relief, "Because the last thing I need is for anybody to start thinking that the Living Sex God is thinking of changing horses mid-stream, I'm SO not going to have anybody think that I'd even consider throwing a let over... oh, fuck." He sighed again. "Okay, so drug rehab," he said mournfully as he reset his watch. "Sounds like fun."

"I don't think it's supposed to be fun," Sam opined, "It's supposed to be a rehab program. You could pretend you're talking about drinking," he suggested.

"I'm a Hunter. Alcohol isn't a substance of abuse, it's one of the food groups," Dean protested. "I don't know if I can be convincing – I'm not actually addicted to anything."

"Except maybe for sex, er, occasions of sin," Sam corrected himself hurriedly. Dean let out a small, sad keening noise.

They found a motel of their usual cruddy standard to check into, and hauled their stuff into a room of dubious décor.

"I might go along to Mass this evening, scope out the church," Sam suggested, "You might want to..."

Dean strode across the room, snatched up the small pamphlet advertising a certain type of pay-per-view that could only be classified as an occasion of sin, and stomped into the bathroom, muttering ominously. The sound of flushing drifted out.

"Right, so as I was saying," Sam went on, "I'll go scope out the church, and..."

Dean let out a hiss of displeasure, and yanked a small faded print of a sparkly, ethereal, and tasteful-yet-extremely-naked fairy from the wall, pulling it from the flimsy frame as he headed for the bathroom. The sound of flushing followed.

"Er, okay," Sam said as Dean re-emerged. "Maybe you could just stay here, and, and, and... yeah, just stay here."

"You will go out and fetch food," Dean instructed, dropping heavily to the sofa with the remote, where Jimi joined him for some sympathetic Alpha snuggling. "And booze."

"Sure, bro," Sam agreed hurriedly, "You find something to watch."

As he dumped his duffel on a bedspread that was a confronting shade of lilac, Sam found his eye drawn to a dusty potted plant on the kitchenette bench. He looked at it, and couldn't help smiling.

"What's are you grinning at, Samantha?" asked Dean grumpily, flicking through channels.

"It's just a cactus of the genus _Gymnocalycium_," Sam replied, "You know, the ones that grow into funny shapes so that they look like..."

With a yodel of outrage, Dean shot across the room, snatched up the suggestive succulent, and sprinted for the bathroom. Sam heard the sound of flushing, then Dean re-emerged with the empty pot.

"I will have this room totally free of anything that might prove to be an occasion of sin, Sam," he announced calmly. "So watch yourself, bro. You might not flush away, but you are not too big to be swirlied."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

As she walked into the classroom, Sister Felicity's 'invisible whiskers', the term that a well respected veteran patrolman had once used to describe the feeling, no, the _knowledge_, that something was not as it seemed, twitched. She wondered if it was just because she was taking the session by herself today – Sister Germaine had come down with a nasty cold that had eventually left her bedridden – and then she spotted the newcomers.

_twitch-twitch-twitch..._

They were carrying, she was sure of it, with an ease and confidence of long practice that most of the lowlifes she'd ever dealt with never quite managed. They'd positioned themselves exactly opposite the door, backs to a wall, where they could see the door and the windows – pretty much exactly where she and a partner would've chosen to sit if sent to do a scope out. Dean and Sam Young, the roll named them, though which was which she'd have to find out. She smiled pleasantly, and decided not to turn her back on either of them.

"Good morning, everybody," she called the class to order, "First order of business, I have to tell you, is that Sister Germaine will not be with us today, or for a few days yet, I suspect – her sniffle has turned into something very nasty. It must be, to put her out of action, because I suspect the average tank would have trouble knocking Sister Germaine down..."

A ripple of concerned noises ran around the room; Sister Germaine was popular with the class. Well, she would be, seeing as her approach mostly seemed to be to keep reminding people that no matter how low they fell, God would always be there to give them a hand up, if they would just let Him.

"...So, as a consolation prize, you get me," she finished.

"I'll have you, Sister Fic!" declared a young man named Billy in a bright voice, and laughter ran around the room. "I've got a thing about nuns!"

"What makes you think I'd be interested in a youngster like you?" she rolled her eyes, "I'm a penguin, not a cougar. Anyway, I'd have to teach you everything."

"Ooooooooooh," went some of the class.

Felicity noticed that one of the Young brothers pointedly averted his gaze during the exchange. Interesting, she thought, because his general ambiance suggested that he was the type to jump anything with a pulse and two X chromosomes to bang together.

"Anyway," she went on, smiling warmly at the two additions to the group, "We have a couple of newcomers today, Dean and Sam Young, although which is which, well, I don't usually condone gambling, but I guess I've got a fifty per cent chance of getting it right."

"I'm Sam," the younger one spoke up and smiled, flashing dimples, "And that's Dean, my older brother." Dean gave her a wan smile, and a little wave.

_twitch-twitch-twitch_

Well, welcome, Sam and Dean," she said, "Usually we ask people to do a quick introduction, and tell us why they're here, so, who's first?"

She immediately classified Sam as one of the Trying Hards – it was a story she'd heard before: a distressing family disaster, falling in with the wrong crowd, losing perspective, thinking that the stuff made him a stronger person and better able to deal with the problems he was facing, arguing with family and friends, hitting rock bottom and a medical emergency before realising that there was a problem – at least he'd had the sense to reach out to his brother and uncle, recognised his 'friends' for what they were, and had cleaned up. Had been clean for a number of years, and was thankful for it every day.

Dean was... confusing. Everything about him evoked words like 'cocky', 'smug', 'arrogant', 'immodest', but as he talked, she heard the voice of someone recognising that they truly had a problem, and realising just how tough it was going to be to beat it...

"It's been a bit over two weeks now since I... succumbed to an occasion of sin", was how he put it, looking uncomfortable. "It's been a part of my life for so long, I mean, I started sneaking out when I was a teenager. I think my Dad knew, he just had other things on his mind, and didn't really worry about it as long as I never attracted attention from the Law. I never thought it was a problem. I mean, it never _was_ a problem before, or at least, I didn't _think_ it was. Really, I never thought about it, except for, uh, thinking about it all the time..." he looked to his brother, and Sam nodded in encouragement. "So, uh, I had a bit of a... medical episode recently, and that was when I realised that if I want my life to get back to normal, I have to deal with this. I can't just ask Sam and Bobby to undo it for me – I know they would if they could – but I have to do this. I have to resist... occasion of sin, and, and, and, just not do it." He looked to his brother, suddenly anxious. "That's okay, right? The not doing it bit?"

"It's fine, Dean," Sam reassured him, "You made a reference to refraining from an action, nothing else."

"Right, right," Dean relaxed a bit. "So, here I am, with my brother doing his best to help me... avoid occasion of sin."

"Kudos," smiled Sister Felicity, "For a lot of people, even realising that there is a problem is a hurdle that they never get over. That's an interesting choice of phrase you used," she noted, "The 'Occasion of sin' bit. It's an ecclesiastical term."

"It means 'A person, place or thing which tempts a man to sin'," said Dean helpfully.

"So it does," she acknowledged with another smile. "Although, I have to say, I'm not completely happy with the idea of us as these passive potential sinners, while sin floats around in the air, and bits of it break off and stick to us and infect us with sin, and make us like these sin zombies who lurch around only instead of going 'braaaaaains', we go 'siiiiiiiiiiiin'..."

" 'For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do. Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I that do it, but sin which dwells within me," quoted Sam, then he looked sheepish. "Er, it's from Romans. The free will thing."

"So it is," smiled Sister Felicity. "You ever thought of becoming a nun?" she asked him.

"Would he have to cut off his hair?" Dean piped up hopefully, as Sam mouthed 'jerk' at him.

"No," Felicity assured him, "Although it might be more comfortable under the veil if he did. It's okay, Sam," she assured the blushing younger brother, "I don't think we'd have a habit long enough to fit you anyway. But the free will thing, yeah, it's about choices, and taking responsibility for your choices, which brings us back to where we were in our last class..." she indicated the words on the whiteboard behind her. "Confession, Contrition, Atonement, Forgiveness." Her eyes raked the class. "Fess up, be truly sorry, do what you can to make it up, and maybe, just maybe, you'll be forgiven. And that, people," her smile became less like a greeting, and a more like a teeth-baring warning, "Is what we are going to talk about today..."

* * *

Reviews are the Amusing Cactus On The Kitchen Bench Of Life! (You may have the Winchester Of Your Choice misting it a little if you like. But seriously, have you seen some of those cacti? They're amusing enough. Google 'suggestive cactus' if you don't believe me.)


	7. Chapter Six

Gaaaah! Curse you, Real Life! Now I have a new laptop, and it has this Windows 8 bizzo loaded. Somebody get me a thirteen-year-old to teach me to drive my new 'puter!

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Usually, when he felt the temperature drop several degrees suddenly, Sam would be on the look-out for an angry spirit. But although what he detected was a metaphorical drop, it still made him shiver.

The nun – Sister Fic, they'd called her, presumably a nickname (a shortening of Fiona, or Felicity, or Phillipa, maybe) – was in her late thirties or early forties, Sam guessed. The details of her habit suggested that she was a novice, not yet professed; a late-comer to her vocation. She had welcomed him and Dean to the class, and they'd told their stories; he had experience to draw on, and the whole abstinence thing had made Dean more convincing as a jonesing user than he ever would have thought possible. (Sam had felt no need to add any qualifying remarks such as "Oh, yeah, just for info, the stuff I was addicted to was demon's blood, no, that's not some party drug, actual demon's blood, sucked out of an actual demon in an actual human host, yeah yeah I know, gross, right, because it made my freaky powers stronger, which I thought would help me kill the demon that held my brother's contract when he sold his soul for me and went to Hell, but I just ended up kick-starting an Apocalypse, but Dean's a less serious case, really, he's just hanging out to get laid again, although I think he'd probably even be happy with jerking off, which as far as we know won't actually start an Apocalypse but with Dean trying to be abstinent there could be tears before bedtime and breakage of furniture at some point...")

It had been pretty much what he'd been expecting: Sister Fic had accepted their stories, then congratulated Dean on realising that he had a problem, and they had started to talk about free will, and choices, and the consequences of an individual's actions. Confession, Contrition, Atonement, Forgiveness.

And then, the temperature had, metaphorically, dropped. The shiver had been real.

"Confession, Contrition, Atonement, Forgiveness." Sister Fic's eyes raked the class. "Fess up, be truly sorry, do what you can to make it up, and maybe, just maybe, you'll be forgiven. And that, people," her smile became less like a greeting from a happy labrador, and a more like a teeth-baring warning from a prowling wolf, "Is what we are going to talk about today."

Sam looked around the class and wondered if he was the only one who felt like a little a swimmer who, thinking that he had been frolicking with a friendly dolphin, suddenly realised that the dorsal fin circling in the water now looked less like Flipper and more like Jaws.

"You are here because you have screwed up," she told them in a voice with steel under it. "Some of you are here because you realise that you've screwed up, and you want to fix it. And some of you are here because you think it's the easy option – anything's gotta be better than jail, right?" she gave them a smile that made the word _pointy_ pop into Sam's head. "With free will, you chose the path of screwing up. It's your free will as to whether you will undo your screw-up. You are here, not in jail, because you have made a commitment, a promise, to undoing your screw up."

Sam thought that somewhere, in the distance, he could hear a double bass tuning up...

A hand went up. "Sister Germaine says that no matter how bad we screw up, God is prepared to forgive us," a young man said – there was a small note of defiance in his voice that withered under Sister Fic's gaze.

_Daaaaa-dum... Daaaaa-dum..._

"Well, yay God," she replied, twirling one finger in the air. "He forgives you. Is that going to help you stay alive? Stay out of jail? Get a job? Show me the bit of paper you have that says God forgives you, and explain to me how you're going to take that to the bank, and use it to pay your bills." She stared hard at him. "God's forgiveness is all very well," she conceded, "But, frankly, right now, you lot should be more concerned about forgiveness from the society you live in, and the judicial system that polices it. Don't get me wrong about God, He can help," she went on, "And He will, if you just ask Him, but there's a catch – you have to be sincere. You have to be genuinely sorry. And you have to be prepared to do all you can to undo your screw-up. It's not so bad," she smiled that shark-smile again, "You'll find that He is a lot easier to convince than Mr and Mrs Citizen, The Law, or me. His standards are the lowest – He's happy to look into your heart. The rest of us demand action to back up the words."

"But Sister Germaine said..." another woman began.

_Daaaaa-dum... Daaaaa-dum... Daaaaa-dum... Daaaaa-dum..._

"Sister Germaine is a wonderful, loving woman, with a heart as big as a racehorse's, a faith as strong as an ox, and a capacity to see the best in everybody that does her credit," Sister Fic's smile was momentarily genuinely warm, "Because Sister Germaine is one of those rare creatures, a genuinely charitable person. If she could, she'd do all the work for you, to undo your screw-ups. Because that's just the sort of person she is." The smile lost its warmth. "I, a humble novice, am nowhere near emulating her excellent example. So," she pointed to the whiteboard with a ruler. "Confession. You're here because you've used. Contrition. Your being here, participating in this course, is taken to be an indication that you are sorry. You don't have any control over whether you receive Forgiveness or not, except by your actions, so, let's talk about Atonement." She whacked the ruler against the board; Sam jumped in his seat. "Making amends. Undoing your screw up." She gazed around the room with frank distaste. "Some of you have a lot of amending to do. And I also know that, right now, some of you have no intention of doing any amending at all."

"Now, just a minute," protested a middle-aged man in a well-fitting casual suit, "You have no right to speak to us like that!"

"Oh?" Sister Fic's expression was all solicitous attention, not necessarily the attention of someone who thinks you've just said something interesting, Sam thought, more like a shark that's just spotted a whaling ship where a large carcass is being butchered and there will soon be large chunks of offal thrown overboard... "I am of course interested to hear why you might think that, Ray."

_DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum_

Sister Fic," the man went on expansively, bordering on patronising, "What is, this good nun – bad nun? Isn't that a little clichéd? Do you think you can frighten us into reforming?"

_For fuck's sake, dude, _Sam thought frantically, _Stop throwing blood into the water!_

Sister Fic paused. "No," she said solemnly, "No, I know for a fact I can't. In the end you'll do it for yourself, or you won't do it at all." She circled around the room towards him; Sam tried not to think about large marine apex predators. "Because the one thing, the one thing, I do know about junkies..."

"I find that word offensive," snapped the man called Ray.

_Doodle-OOOOOOOOOO!_

"I don't give a shit what you find offensive," Sister Fic snapped back as members of the class looked at each other in astonishment. "Because the one thing I do know, is that junkies – shut up, Ray – junkies will lie, and cheat, and bullshit themselves as hard as they do the people they end up preying on." She glared at him. "Bullshit yourself if you like, Ray," she said, "Bullshit the justice system, but don't try to bullshit me, I'll take it as a personal insult."

"How dare you!" shouted Ray angrily. "Drug use is a victimless crime!"

Sam had the sudden urge to yell a warning to the guy. _Get out of the water!_ S_he's not a penguin, she's a killer whale!_

Sister Fic was not a small woman, but she moved like a snake. With astonishing speed, she closed the distance to Ray and slammed his head onto the table, pinning him there.

It wasn't often that Sam's mouth went into gear before his brain did, but the sheer shock of what had just happened jolted him into action. "Hey!" he yelped, halfway out of his seat, "What are you..."

And then...

The most _awful _thing happened...

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean was worried. There was something wrong.

He and Sam had made their way to the right room, and introduced themselves to the nun taking the group, Sister Fic. Within the first five minutes, he had, as a professional con man himself, identified about half the class as bullshit artists who were there to work the system, then he and Sam had told their stories, and he was sure he'd been pretty convincing. But there was definitely something wrong.

He'd been prepared to defend himself against any occasion of sin, and had successfully avoided any outward show of amusement at the idea of the nun having to teach a young guy anything in the sack, but then he'd realised that he didn't have anything to guard against.

Because, for reasons he could not fathom, he found Sister Fic to be totally unhot.

And that really worried him.

She should've been the sort of thing he could fantasise about: a smart-talking but strict woman, in a nun's habit, for Christ's sake – he should've had half a dozen cheeky one-liners pop into his head in the first sixty seconds on the strength of that alone. But, for the first time since he was fifteen, the Living Sex God's bottomless well of potential pick-up lines had run dry.

It's not like she wasn't attractive. In fact, under the penguin suit, she actually was something of a looker. She wasn't thin, but her size wasn't due to fat, either – she was athletic. And he _liked_ athletic. And that was just from the chin down. Her face had a fine bone structure, with high cheekbones showing a very faint dusting of freckles, and plump lips, and deep green eyes with impossibly long lashes. Then, the way she smiled when she was clearly getting angry, but keeping a leash on it and getting ready to pounce – the tiny little tremor of anger in her deep pink, fulsome top lip would've been enough to make any red-blooded Living Sex God want to don his leopard print loincloth, swing from the nearest vine and yodel his lust to the entire jungle...

And she was totally unhot.

It was ridiculous. It was unheard of. He should've been battling to keep a lid on his unchaste thoughts, he should've been struggling to wrestle the Killer Smile off his face, he should've been popping a totally inappropriate boner right there and then, but...

Nope. Nothing. Nada.

When she shot across the room to the slimy asshole he'd picked as some sort of white collar offender with enough money to buy a hotshot lawyer to wangle him out of jail time and into a soft option diversion program, and slammed the asshat's face into the table, he should've wanted to throw himself onto the table top, and shout, "Me! Me! Do me next!"

Nuh-uh. Not so much as a twitch from Little Dean.

And then, and _then_, when his little brother was half out of his seat, Sister Fic turned to Sam, and gave him a _look._

It was... intense. It was... unbelievable. It was... overwhelming. It was... inspiring. And she didn't have to say a single word.

It was _THE_ most _EPIC_ Bitchface Dean had _ever_ seen on _anybody_.

Sam let out a small squeak, his mouth snapped shut and, eyes bugging in horror, his legs folded under him, plonking him back into his seat.

By rights, Dean should've a) burst out laughing, b) proposed, and/or c) come in his pants right there and then, but...

Nothing.

And that's why he was so really, really worried...

"Victimless crime?" Sister Fic hissed like an angry cobra, "Did you just say, 'victimless crime'?" Her sneer was as epic as her bitchface. "I know about you, Ray," she went on, as her hapless victim squirmed, "I've read your record. And found some extra information to fill in the gaps. And you may think that your wild coke-fuelled weekend parties were a 'victimless crime', but I think the people you screwed over might disagree. You know, the clients you fleeced to fund your fun, your colleagues at the small but previously modestly profitable brokerage who ended up out of work, the founding directors who went down with the ship after the business crashed..."

"Let go of me!" Ray actually squealed, waving one arm futilely. "I'll sue you for this!"

"Come at me, bro," Sister Fic's grin was positively evil. "That weasel you hired to wangle you out of paying for what you've done? I've eaten pissant little shits like him for breakfast. I should be suing you. For breach of contract." She was magnificent when she was angry. "You are here making a mockery of what Sister Germaine is trying to do for you. You think you can come here, say a few prayers, a few mea culpas, and walk away, scot free? Think again, slimeball!"

"You can't do this!" Ray yelped. "You're a nun!"

"I'm not a nun!" snarled Sister Fic. "I'm only a novice. That's like having a learner's permit. It's my licence to fuck up!" The class gasped in shock. "Oh, don't worry," she grinned at them. "God will forgive me. I'm consecrated to him, and that is His job, after all." She gave Ray's head one last little bounce, and let go of him. "You know who you are," she narrowed her eyes, circling around to put herself in front of the door. "I've sat here for nearly two weeks, watching you, and I know that half of you think you're playing the system. Pander to the nice clueless nuns, and pretend you're sorry. Ohhh, I'm so familiar with that tune, people. So, seeing as I'm not nearly as trusting as our dear and much loved Sister Germaine – the woman is a Living Rule, I tell you – I've called in some back-up. And we'll see just exactly who is abiding by the conditions of their bail, parole, or diversion program." She put two fingers to her mouth and let out a piercing whistle. Behind her, the door opened, and two police officers entered the room. Several of the class's constituents suddenly looked like deer in spotlights. "Meet my new friends, Officer Chong and Officer Pitman. They are here with us today for a new activity. I like to call this one, 'Spit On The Stick'!"

The two officers unsmilingly began to unpack the accoutrements of swab testing. Ray the hotshot financier let out a small sad noise. Sister Fic snapped on a pair of gloves, and picked up a testing pack. "Now," she asked brightly, "Shall we do this in alphabetical order, or would somebody like me to do them first?" She turned to Dean, smiling sunnily. "How about you, Mr Young, since you're sitting there with your mouth open? Why don't I shove something in there?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam might've been reeling with shock from being, well, _stared_ into submission by a swearing nun, but that was nothing compared to the shock he felt as he watched his brother's reaction to Sister Fic's smiling suggestion.

Ordinarily, a line like that would've been an invitation to the Living Sex God to slot the Killer Smile into place, trot out a pick-up line that didn't even qualify as a single entendre, and generally fill the room with enough pheromones to suffocate anybody within a radius of twenty feet in anticipation of leaving with at least one woman and enjoying several hours of gymnastically accomplished bedroom hi-jinks of a sort that would leave the most outré sex therapist weeping whilst tearing up their degree...

Dean just nodded, and obediently let her pop the swab onto his tongue. He didn't even suck on it suggestively.

Sam made a mental note to surreptitiously check his big brother for a fever, because he had to be coming down with something.

* * *

Reviews are the Amusingly Assertive Nuns Dealing With The Scumbags In The Classroom Of Life!


	8. Chapter Seven

Petunia the plot bunny must like the new laptop. Go Petunia! Everybody shake your pom-poms for Petunia!

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

"Well done, Mr Young," Sister Fic said to Dean, "You are a sheep, so, to the right, please. I will admit," she went on, "I had you picked as a goat when you first walked in," she gestured at the group who had not passed their swab tests – they were seated at the other end of the room, sullen and silent, while the two police officers took their details. "Sometimes I am delighted to find out that I'm wrong about somebody."

"Er, thank you, Sister," Dean smiled uncertainly. "I'm glad you were wrong, too." He suddenly looked to his brother anxiously. "That's all right, isn't it, Sam?" he asked plaintively.

"It's okay, Dean," his brother reassured him, "You just meant that you were glad to be a sheep and not a goat."

"Yeah," Dean's smile looked a little less uncertain. "Yay sheep! Baaaaaaaaa!"

"Yay sheep, indeed," Sister Fic agreed, her eyes sliding with un-nunly satisfaction towards the goats. "Today, it's the goats who get fleeced."

Sam gave her a concerned look. "Uh, are you going to, you know, get in any trouble for that?" he asked.

"Oh, probably," she answered cheerfully. "Still, it will give me so much to talk about in confession – you can only own up to uncharitable thoughts and filching chocolate from the kitchen so many times and you start to sound terribly repetitive, don't you think, Mr Young?"

"Uh, running out of things to confess is never a problem I've had," Sam found himself answering.

"Keep up the good work, then," Sister Fic told him. "I think the priests enjoy it," she confided, "When people come and confess something really interesting. Father Lucas once told me that it's better than daytime television. Older priests don't get out much - some days, I've felt obliged to make things up, just to make their morning a little more engaging."

Sister Fic informed the sheep that the rest of the class time would be taken up dealing with the paperwork for the goats, so they could go early, and keep on doing whatever they were doing, because for them it was obviously working.

"That was... kinda scary," opined a thin-faced girl warily as the sheep made their way out of the building.

"Yeah, that was... intense," agreed a young man.

"I remember the nuns when I was at school," shuddered an older man, "Kill you with a look, they could. She's just like that."

"Oh, God, I so wanna do her," sighed Billy. "No, I think I want her to do me. You think she might wear Victoria's Secret under the penguin suit?" he asked Dean conversationally as the women made noises of disgust.

"I, uh, I, I," stuttered Dean, "I, um, think that, er, nuns probablywearsensibleunderclo thesforcomfortlet'sgoSam."

Back at the Impala, Sam voiced his concerns to his brother.

"Dean," he began carefully, "Are you feeling okay?"

"Sam," Dean replied, "I think there is something wrong with me."

"I'm just a bit worried that... what?" Sam did a double take at the unexpected turn the conversation took.

"I think there's something wrong with me," Dean repeated, starting the engine.

"It'll just be a cold, or something," Sam reassured him, relieved that they weren't going to have the I'm-Not-Getting-Sick-Francis-So-Shut-Up conversation that usually accompanied any bout of illness in Dean. "We had been pretty busy, prior to that asshole spirit stabbing you in the leg – you're probably just run down, so if you rest up for a day or two, I'll do some more recon, we'll get you some cold meds..."

"It's not a cold, Sam," Dean went on. "It's worse than that."

Sam's face became worried. "Dean, is your leg giving you trouble?" he asked. "Are you feeling feverish? Because if you've developed some grumbling infection, we'll hand this job over to someone else and go back to Bobby's and call Doc in again, it's not something to macho your way out of, bro, if we don't deal with it, you could get really seriously sick…"

"It's nothing that modern medicine can help with," Dean replied gloomily. "I think I'm… losing it."

Sam looked at his brother in confusion. "Losing it?"

"Losing it," confirmed Dean sadly. "I mean, I was all psyched up to avoid any occasion of sin, right, but I can truthfully say to you that, confronted with a nun, and one that is quite attractive, I had absolutely no unchaste thoughts whatsover." He looked stricken. "I didn't just keep my unchaste thoughts to myself – I didn't _have_ any!"

Sam's face rearranged itself into Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean). "Jerk," he griped, "I was starting to worry that you might really have something wrong with you, and all it is, is that your libido has finally learned some self-control?"

"It _is_ something wrong with me!" Dean complained, " She should be an occasion of sin, but she is unhot! It's worse than that – she is anti-hot! I experienced absolutely no lewd thoughts, impulses or reactions in her presence!" He positively drooped, then suddenly looked panicked. "You don't think... you don't think this is because of the curse, do you?" he asked anxiously.

"Oh, God," sighed Sam, "Dean, there is absolutely nothing weird, unhealthy or in any way pathological about a man seeing a woman and not wanting to… er, not seeing an occasion of sin. It's normal! Well, for normal men, anyway…"

Dean didn't seem to hear him. "Oh, no," he whispered, "What if I'm doomed not just to have to be chaste on the outside, but I end up being genuinely chaste on the inside?"

"It'll never happen," snarked Sam. "My luck isn't that good. Just drive, Dean the Diaper."

******...oooOOOooo...** **...oooOOOooo...** **...oooOOOooo...** **...oooOOOooo...** **...oooOOOooo...** **...oooOOOooo...** **...oooOOOooo...**

After dark, they headed back to St Clare's for a spot of breaking and entering.

"So, where do we start?" asked Dean, surreptitiously flipping off a window depicting the Archangel Michael as he kept watch. "Have you ever noticed how girly Michael looks in so many pictures of him?"

"Angels are androgenous beings, and historically Michael was often portrayed with features that were ambiguous, not distinctively masculine or feminine," Sam replied offhandedly, working at the elderly mechanical lock.

"He always comes out looking like a sissy," noted Dean. "With hair even girlier than yours." He paused thoughtfully. "If he wanted a sissy vessel, why didn't he pick you?"

"I don't know, Dean," sighed Sam with an eyeroll, "You could ask Cas. Maybe lips and eyelashes carry more weight than hair on the Angelic Sissy Scale…" The elderly lock on the church door gave a distinct _clunk_ that coincided with Dean's squawk of outrage, and they slipped inside.

"So, what are we looking for?" asked Dean quietly, pointing his flashlight up the aisle. "Whatever it is, I don't suppose it glows in the dark and whistles Dixie in the presence of evil?"

"Whatever it is, I don't think it will be in the church," Sam replied, "There hasn't been anything taken from inside churches. I found out that it was mostly offices, documentation that was tampered with. I think that's where we need to start."

They made their way through to the office area.

"You're going to tell me we have to look in there, aren't you?" Dean sighed, playing his flashlight across a bank of ancient looking filing cabinets.

"No computer systems were tampered with," Sam shrugged, "Suggesting that it's something older, not digitised, that is of interest."

"Great," griped Dean, "I can't even watch reruns of Dr Sexy while I pretend to help… you start at that end, I'll meet you in the middle." He opened a drawer. "I should've brought booze. Lots of booze. This is not an appropriate way for a totally unsissy man to be spending a night…"

"Dean!" Sam hissed irritably, "Your curse! Outwardly chaste, remember?"

"Yeah yeah," Dean sighed, and pulled out a stack of dusty folders. "I've done nearly twelve hours now, so…"

Sam heard a swish, a short yelp and a clatter as Dean's flashlight fell to the floor.

"Dude, what the…" he turned and stopped dead.

Dean was sprawled across the desk and pinned with his arm twisted up his back. When Sam raised his own flashlight, he saw Sister Felicity grinning at him as she drew a bead on him with Dean's gun.

_Daaaaaadum…. Daaaaaaaadum…_

"Oh, balls," sighed Sam, raising his hands.

"Hello again, Mr Young and Mr Young," she said pleasantly. "Baaaaaaaaa!" she added for good measure.

"Um," said Dean.

Sam smiled as reassuringly as he could. "Er, Sister Fic, this isn't what it looks like," he began.

"Really?" enquired the nun solicitously. "That's interesting. Because what it looks like is two guys sneaking around in the dark, casing the place."

"We're not… we're not exactly casing the place…" Sam went on.

"Ow! Well, we could ask the same thing of you, Sister Sneaky," Dean interjected petulantly.

"Dean," Sam didn't take his eyes off Sister Felicity, "Nun with a gun, Dean, annoying her, not a good idea."

"No, seriously, what are _you_ doing sneaking around in the dark?" persisted Dean. "Don't you have a curfew? Prayers and stuff to say? Silence to observe? I've seen 'The Nun's Story', you know, OW!" he added as the nun behind him gave his arm a twist.

"Let's just say I have invisible whiskers, and you set them twitching the minute I laid eyes on you," she snapped. "But it's not what you're doing that I find really interesting. Do you know what I find really interesting?"

"Uh, no?" ventured Sam.

"Well, what I find really interesting," Sister Fic went on, "Is that you don't actually exist. Oh, I went looking, all right," she told them, "I like to do a bit of background checking on all our… clients here. As Ray found out today. And, guess what? Dean and Sam Young aren't real! Just fancy! Don't wiggle, you," she gave Dean's arm a tweak, eliciting another yelp, "I'm not familiar with this weapon, and I have no idea just what the pull on the trigger is."

"Saaaaam," Dean pleaded, "Trigger happy nun, say something intelligent and engaging!"

"I'm not actually trigger happy," Sister Felicity corrected him, "I'm just not squeamish." She paused. "Do you know how many ways there are to hurt somebody with a gun without actually firing it?"

"Saaaaaaaaaam!" trilled Dean.

"Look, Sister," Sam tried, "This is really difficult to explain, but we are not here to rob the place. There's something… bad going to happen here, we think, and we're trying to stop it…"

"The break-ins at the other convents," she cut him off, "What are you doing? What do you want?"

"That wasn't us!" Sam replied.

"Then who was it?" demanded the nun. "Who's breaking into our offices, and why?"

Sam gave her a beseeching look. "Look, we think we know, kind of, but not exactly. It's hard to explain…"

"Try," she gave him a mirthless grin.

He took a deep breath. "Look, there are… people who would try anything they think might work to… hurt other people, and… we think there may be something, we just don't know what, that these… people are looking for…"

"Try harder," she ordered, giving Dean's arm another twist.

"Owwww!" went Dean. "We think that demons are breaking into convents looking for something but we don't know what owwwwww!"

Sister Felicity's jaw dropped. "Demons?" she repeated incredulously. "Did you seriously just say, 'demons'?"

"Er," Sam stuttered, "He, uh, he gets these, you know, weird ideas sometimes. I think it's because he's, er, you know, dealing with his, um, problem, withdrawal can have all sorts of symptoms…"

From the direction of the church, there came a distinct thump noise, and the sound of swearing.

"Shit," muttered Sister Felicity, pushing backwards and letting go of Dean, "You two idiots stay here." She backed up and headed out the door.

"Hey," said Sam, following her, "Where are you…"

The nun was gone, disappeared into the shadows.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," snarled Sam, pulling out his own gun, "This is not good."

"You're telling me," Dean agreed, "She nearly broke my arm. What a woman. And you know what? She's still not an occasion of sin."

"If that's our demon burglar, the unhotness of a gun-toting nun will be the least of our worries," Sam mused.

"Come on then, bro," Dean headed out back towards the church, "If that's our demon, we gotta go save the nun. Even if she's anti-hot. And I want my gun back."

* * *

Yikes! Who will save whom from what?

Reviews are the Performance Enhancing Drugs Fed To Plot Bunnies In The Professional Sports Leagues Of Life! (Stay tuned for details of Petunia's tell-all interview with Oprah.)


	9. Chapter Eight

The bunny is on fiyah! Metaphorically speaking. Not actually. That would be cruel. And might singe the keyboard.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

The noises coming from the church were those indicative of someone trying to be quiet and not being terribly successful. The muttered cursing also indicated that the would-be burglar didn't have a flashlight, wished that she had brought one, had not done any recon of the layout of the place, was considering relieving herself in the confessional just for the fun of it and intended to see somebody flayed for pissing her about like this.

The Winchesters returned to the church silently, keeping to the darkened recesses beyond the aisles as the young woman made her way up the nave towards the altar. The weak ambient light showed the angry scowl on her face as she stood, apparently trying to decide what to do next.

Sam walked out of the shadows behind her. "Um, hi," he said, giving her a dimpled smile.

"Oh!" the intruder's startled surprise was genuine, but she covered it well, and gave him a smile of her own. "Oh, sorry, you scared me!' she trilled in an engaging way. "Do you know if it's, uh, okay to light candles this late?" she asked, waving a hand towards a small side chapel. "It's my grandma, she's really sick, and I thought, it couldn't hurt to light a candle for her…"

"I don't know," Sam used his best tone of friendly ignorance, "I just come here to read sometimes because it's quiet. And I have to concentrate when I'm reading in French."

"Oh," she smiled again. "What are you reading?"

"It's for a college class. Something by Père Dumas," he told her cheerfully. "Have you heard of it? The Count of Monte _Christo_!"

The young woman let out a malevolent hiss, and flinched backwards. "Whatever you're doing here, Hunter," she snarled, her eyes bleeding to fully black, "You're going to wish you hadn't set foot in this place!"

"So are you," he grinned at her, "But for now, I really would like to keep talking to you."

"Would you?" she purred dangerously, sauntering closer. "Do you like to live dangerously, little boy?"

"No," Sam replied, "But it gives my brother time to get behind you and do this."

Sam threw himself out of the way as the demon spun around to be met by Dean's cheerful "Hi!" and a slosh of holy water. She let out a stifled scream as the water hissed and bubbled.

"I'll end you for that!" she growled, charging at Dean and making a grab for him. He dodged, but came up against the end of a pew. The demon grinned, took a handful of his jacket, and threw him several metres through the air to land with a heavy thump and some choice cusswords.

"Still wanna talk, Hunter?" she turned back to Sam, pausing warily when she saw him draw a demon-killing blade.

"Actually, yeah," he snapped back. "What are you assholes doing breaking into churches?"

Her expression drew into cruel amusement. "Oh, wouldn't you like to know," she teased, wagging a finger at him. "But that would be telling! Oh, I don't think you really want to use that," she gestured at the knive, "Unless you don't mind killing the original inhabitant of this meatsuit. Not that I'd mind if you did, the screaming is starting to give me a headache…" Sam swore, and lowered the knife. "Sadly for you, Mr Hunter, I'm done talking. I'm just gonna kill you now. I might take my time with your brother though," she glanced past him to where Dean was wheezingly making his way to his feet. "He looks like a guy I could have fun with. If I'm feeling charitable I might even let him enjoy it too, while I pull his lungs out through his chest."

"Don't flatter yourself," Dean leaned on a pew, breathing heavily but nonetheless smirking cockily, "I'd rather stick my dick in a mincer. What is it with demons? Why are they always totally obsessed with sex? Is it a deadly sin thing? Sorry, sweetheart. I can, of course, understand why a perverted piece of crap like you would fantasise about a fine piece of tail like me, but The Living Sex God does not do demons. The occasional attractive redhead angel-turned-human, yes, but… oh, shit! SHIT!" Dean subsided to angry muttering, and fiddled with his watch. "She screwed up my chastity, Sam, just stab her somewhere non-fatal and we'll apologise later!"

Sam hefted the knife, but the demon hissed malevolently and waved a hand at him, sending him flying backwards to crash into his big brother, which sent them both sprawling heavily.

"Oh... God… Sam," Dean gasped and wheezed, winded again, "How can… somebody who… lives on… salad… weigh… so much?"

"Slight technical hitch there," she sneered, as Sam scrambled up, "You gotta get close enough to use your little fruit peeler. Oh, and once your head is caved in against the nearest stone wall, the whole hand-eye co-ordination thing goessss aaIIIIEEEEEE!"

Sam flung the contents of his own flask of holy water at her and darted in with the knife as she flinched and screamed while the water boiled on her skin, but she still struck out blindly, not giving him an opening. "Don't dick around… with holy water, just… send her back… to No Sex Land, Sam!" gasped Dean, struggling to rise. "Ohhh, I am so… putting you… on a diet…"

"Shit!" Sam kept looking for an opening as he began the rite. "_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,_

_omnis satanica potest – _OOF!" He doubled over as the demon suddenly shot upright, and sucker punched him in the gut.

"Oh, dear," crooned the demon, kicking the knife away and picking up the empty flask as he doubled over, retching. "Looks like you've shot your load there, Mr Hunter." With one hand she picked him up easily by the collar of his jacket. "I was going to bash your head in," she informed him as he gasped to get air into his lungs, "But watching your goldfish impression is so much fun, I think I'll strangle you instead." Her other hand closed around his throat, as he struggled to breathe. "I just love the noises one of you makes as the life dies right out of your eyiiiiiAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

An enormous slosh of water drenched demon and Hunter both. She screamed, sulphurous steam billowing around her, and crumpled to the floor.

Standing behind her, Sister Felicity hefted a large plastic jug. When the demon collapsed, she stepped in and upended it again, sending up fresh waves of pungent, hissing steam.

"You okay?" she asked Sam. He nodded, and Dean appeared behind him, helping him up. "So, what now?" she went on, giving the demon another dousing.

"Ex… exorcism," Sam gulped in air as Dean dragged him upright. "_Omnis… satanica… pot… potestas… omnis in… *gasp* incursio_…"

"Here," the nun dumped more water over the demon and handed the plastic jug over to Dean, "Keep Dolly the Demon here nice and damp." She stepped out of range of the demon's random strikes, and grasped her crucifix. "_Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…_"

"Er, running out of juice, here," Dean warned as the last of the holy water dribbled out over the moaning demon.

'S okay, bro," grinned Sam from where he was leaning on a pew, still coughing and gasping for breath, "Here comes… the cavalry."

Dean turned at the rapid click of claws on a wooden floor. Jimi, eyes blazing red and snaggled Hell-teeth bared as he rumbled with a growl like an angry earthquake, made a beeline for the demon, and as she tried to rise, he clamped onto her arm and held fast. The demon wailed and growled, letting out noises that no human voice could ever make.

Barely missing a beat, Sister Felicity finished the exorcism, then let out a little shriek of surprise as the black column of smoke screeched and howled out of the young woman and speared downward, disappearing through the floor. The sudden silence was broken only by Sam's wheezing to get his breath back, and Jimi licking anxiously at the vacated demon host's hand, whining to himself.

Sister Felicity dropped to her knees. "Ellie? Ellie? Can you hear me?" she asked, searching for a pulse. "She's alive," she pronounced with some relief, as the young woman stirred.

"You know her?" asked Dean.

"She's from the diversion group," Sister Fic answered, "I wondered why she didn't show up today. She's been doing so well – one of the sheep – and I was really worried that she'd relapsed."

Ellie's eyes flew open and she let out a scream. Sister Felicity grabbed her hands.

"Ellie, it's me, it's Sister Fic," she told the trembling girl, "It's Sister Fic. You're at St Clare's. Did you have a bad episode? We've talked about symptoms of withdrawal. Did you have an hallucination?" The girl burst into tears and threw herself into the nun's arms. "Sister Germaine is really better at this," she sighed. "All right, I have to deal with Ellie first," she stood up, bringing the young woman to her feet. "You two go back to the office, and I'll be back. And then, we will talk."

"Okay," nodded Dean, "Yeah, I could see that you want some explanation…"

"Fuck that," muttered Sister Fic, steering the girl back towards the door, "I want a damned drink."

Dean pulled Sam to his feet. "You good, bro?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sam assured him, "Just winded. Ow. And possibly a bit bruised." He rubbed his shoulder.

"I don't know how you could be, since you landed on me," griped Dean.

"Well, you're lumpy," complained Sam.

"I, on the other hand, feel like I've been sat on by a moose," Dean continued. "A moose who hasn't yet discovered the delicious variety of Weight Watchers' Points Plus System." He leaned down carefully to ruffle Jimi's ears. "It's a good thing you came to investigate, isn't it?" he told the dog, who panted happily at the praise from his Alpha. "Yes it is! Yes it is!"

"Well, he definitely does have a nose for evil shit," agreed Sam, smiling fondly at the dog, "He usually comes to investigate if there's demons involved." He looked around. "This evening has been… interesting." He gazed after Sister Felicity. "She seemed remarkably blasé for somebody who was confronted with the sight of an actual demon; I don't think she's coming back with the cops, you know," he opined.

"Sounded more like she'll be coming back with a bottle," grinned Dean. "Now, that's my kind of nun!" His face suddenly became anxious. "Er, you don't think, you know," he gestured indistinctly, "The curse…"

"No, that's fine," Sam reassured him, "You were just indicating that you would really like a drink. And frankly, so would I. Come on, let's head back to the office."

As they turned to leave, Jimi let out a sharp whuff, and nosed his way back towards the altar.

"Hey, J-Man, you going to sniff us out some sacramental wine?" chirped Dean, cheered considerably by the thought that consumption of alcohol might well be occurring in the near future. "I'd rather some sacramental bourbon, but I'll take what I can get. Why don't they have sacramental bourbon? I bet it would get people coming back to church…"

"Not alcohol, Dean," Sam noted, "But I think he has found something."

Jimi trotted back to his Alpha and Second, a crumpled piece of paper in his mouth.

"What you got there, fella?" Dean asked, taking the torn and slightly damp scrap of paper. "Whew, it stinks of sulphur," he complained. "You haven't got Francis' Disease, have you, Jimi? Maybe I shouldn't have let you have that last burrito…"

"Jimi tends to make things smell of lavender, post burrito," Sam pointed out, "This must've been dropped by the demon." The writing was a little smudged, but was still clear enough to be legible.

_**Winchester  
**__**F. & K. Morgan  
**__**11-19-74 11-23-74**_

"What is that? Some sort of demonic memo?" wondered Sam.

"Instructions," Dean said grimly. "A location, a name, and, what, a combination?"

"Could be dates," Sam suggested. "In November, 1974. At any rate, I think it suggests that they're not looking for an artefact, they're looking for people. F. and K. Morgan. Or information about them, at least."

"Why not start in the phone book?" Dean asked. "Work your way through the F. Morgans. Like the Terminator."

"Morgan is a pretty common name," Sam replied, "Depending on what their actual intentions are, a systematic demonic search for people named Morgan could leave a pretty obvious pattern; Hunters would pick up on it quickly, and know where to start looking."

"Yeah, I guess," shrugged Dean. "In the end, it didn't work for the Terminator, either. First he got squashed, then he got melted. Although I could die a happy cyborg if I was melted by Sarah Connor. She was way hotter in the second movie, I wouldn't have minded materialising naked in her cell and having her check me for concealed weapons… oh, damn," he sighed, resetting his watch. "I'm back to square one. Again. This sucks."

"Look on the bright side, bro," Sam consoled him, "At least you aren't turning chaste on the inside, after all."

"Yeah," Dean agreed gloomiy, "It must just be the nun effect. Don't have none, don't want none, aint gonna get none. Get caught in the chastity field, and you won't get none, either. Maybe I should just hang around with her for twenty-four hours. When do you think she'll be back with booze?"

* * *

Reviews are A) the Slightly Bruised And Banged About Winchester Of Your Choice Needing Your Tending OR B) The Unexpected Bottle Of Decent Booze Suddenly Appearing In The Office Of Life!*

*Winchesters will NOT be materialising nekkid. You depraved individuals.


	10. Chapter Nine

DO NOT feed the bunny illicit substances. Once they get started, they can be manic enough as it is...

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

"By rights I should probably be herding you towards the nearest Emergency Room to be checked out," suggested Sister Felicity as she cleaned the contusion on the side of Sam's face, "But I suspect that a couple of men who don't exist might be a bit reluctant to do that. Hold still."

"Sorry," Sam winced. "It stings," he added, a trifle defiantly.

"Try this, bro," Dean grinned, proffering the bottle of Irish whiskey. "Better than Tylenol. What's a nun doing with access to this stuff, anyway?"

"I'm Catholic, not a Baptist," she replied, "And I thought we might prevail upon the charity of Father Callahan."

"Who's Father Callahan?" Sam asked.

"He's a priest in the grand old Irish Catholic tradition," the nun answered, "Which entails lots of hellfire and damnation sermons – some have lepers – promises of eternal torment for Self-Pollution, and copious amounts of alcoholic beverage, stashed in strategic locations. I think you'll get away with a couple of butterfly strips, here, Sam."

"Are you saying that one of the priests here is an alcoholic?" Sam wanted to know.

"Nope," Felicity grinned, "He's a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings. Okay, I think you're good. Now, Dean, shirt."

"Got one right here," Dean indicated the pertinent garment, "Clean on last week, even."

"Sister Laundress would be impressed, I'm sure," intoned Felicity, sounding anything but. "Shirt off."

"Huh?" Dean's eyes momentarily bugged. "Uh, look, I know that you're, uh, you know, supposed to be, the vow of chastity and all, so..."

"Oh, get over yourself, Casanova," she rolled her eyes in a very Samesque fashion indeed. "I'm sure that, if I call upon the Virgin Mary for help, I can somehow find the moral strength to resist your overwhelming masculine charms and the siren call of your enticing sexual ambiance..." Dean actually blushed. "You're holding your side, and after your brother landed on you, I'm betting you're as bruised as hell, at least. Off."

"No, really, I'm good," Dean assured her, feeling suddenly and inexplicably shy.

Sister Felicity's smiled; Sam heard that damned double bass tuning up again. "You know," she went on silkily, "When I first clapped eyes on you, I thought to myself, 'Now, there is a man who knows how to get it off'..."

Dean gulped.

"Oh, come on," she snapped, "You don't look like you've got man-boobs. What is it, you got a third nipple? An embarrassing tattoo from a drunken night out with a sailor named Roderigo? A birthmark in the shape of Oprah Winfrey's head?" She turned and appealed to Jimi. "Your human here is being a coward," she told the grinning dog.

"I'm not," Dean said defensively, "But I'm good, really, and I don't neeeEEEEEP!" Jimi shoved his nose at his Alpha's side, and when Dean flinched, Sister Felicity deftly grabbed his shirt, and pulled it up over his head.

"Aaaaaaargh!" Dean protested in a muffled voice, waving his tangled arms, "I'm stuck!"

'At least you're quieter," Felicity pointed out, as Sam tried not to laugh. "Oh, yeah, your brother got you good, I see what you mean about the moose thing. Hold still..." She dabbed at his side with the disinfectant. "This is going to be black and blue and sore as hell tomorrow," she opined, as Dean squirmed, "But I don't think you have anything broken." When she finished, she pulled his shirt back over his head. Dean gave her a baleful glare, like a small child who has just been assailed with a washcloth after a particularly enjoyable session at the finger-painting table.

"Where did you run off to, anyway?" He asked in a slightly peeved tone.

"I didn't run off," she corrected him, "I had a plan."

"Er, what exactly was your plan?" Sam couldn't help himself.

"I planned to see what you two would do," she told him. "Meet up with an accomplice and run for it, I might've expected that. Get thrown around like a couple of ping pong balls in a tornado, not so much."

When she was satisfied that the Winchesters were adequately tended, Sister Felicity took the bottle from Dean, and took a long drink. "All right, then," the nun seated herself on the desk, and stared at the Winchesters with her I'm-Not-Flipper-After-All expression. "I've seen people do some pretty impressive things when they're well trained, or off their faces. I've seen a skinny teenager coked to the gills bludgeon his way through half a dozen officers, because he thought he was Godzilla. I've been thrown halfway across the dojo by a woman half my size and twice my age, and she was just warming up before she really started training. But I have never seen a little thing like Ellie pick up a guy the size of you, or you, with one hand, and not throw him, but hurl him, _hurl _him, like he was a basketball." She paused, and handed the bottle back to Dean. "Ellie wasn't on anything. I'd stake my veil on it. But she was scared shitless. I convinced her that this is just a part of the withdrawal process. But I think it was more than that. And I think you know what it was. So, Mr Hunter," she smiled grimly, "Is that your name? Well, Mr Hunter, and Mr Hunter, of course, I would love to hear your explanation for this evening's events."

"Hunter isn't our name," Sam told her, "Our name is Winchester. Hunter is what we are. It's what we do."

"Hunting things, saving people," Dean took another drink, "The family business." Jimi woofed supportively.

"And what exactly do you hunt?" she pressed.

Sam began to say something, then stopped. "I think it only fair to warn you," he said, "This may well turn into more than a one-bottle conversation."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

When the first bottle was empty, Felicity shooed Sam off his chair, stood on it to get to a high shelf in a dusty cupboard, and let out a little 'Aha!' of triumph as she withdrew another one.

"So, your mother was killed by a demon when you were both small," she recapped, "Your father took you on the road to hunt down the demon that killed her, turned you into a pair of capable little killers, then died in a car crash, then you found the demon and killed it. You're Hunters. Accompanied by your faithful dog Jimi, who is half Hellhound..." at the sound of his name, Jimi whuffed, and nudged against her for pats. "...And half utterly adorable Rottweiler, and was born after you managed to summon a full blood Hellhound and he mated your uncle's bitch, and his mom still grabs him and washes his ears whenever you stay there, and you all go roaming around the country, killing off supernatural fuglies, Hunting things, and saving people..."

"The family business," confirmed Dean, opening the second bottle and drinking. "I think I like Father Callahan."

"Enjoy," Sister Felicity sighed glumly, taking the bottle. "I'm going to be on my knees for a week after I confess the sin of theft. And gluttony."

"You came to help, with holy water," Sam pointed out as she handed the bottle to him. "And you finished the exorcism."

"Hey, you see this habit? You see this veil?" she tutted. "Catholic nun. We believe that holy water and exorcism can fix anything from the Black Death to a broken drive shaft."

"If only it was that simple," sighed Dean. "Would've saved me a fortune in parts by now."

The nun looked thoughtful. "I tried it on a microwave, once, when I was a postulant," she recalled. "The damned thing never worked properly, so I doused it in holy water and exorcised it. Fixed the problem."

"Really?" Sam asked with interest.

"Really." She took back the bottle. "The water got into the guts of it, it exploded and caught fire, and we were finally given permission to buy a new one."

"You never know, maybe it was possessed," Dean ventured.

"There was a lot of black smoke coming out of it when the Fire Brigade arrived," nodded the nun. "It didn't shoot off down into the ground, though."

"You were quick off the mark with the holy water in the church," Sam reminded her, "Have you seen a demon before? Besides the exploding possessed microwave, I mean."

"No," Sister Felicity replied, "But I'm not stupid, either. The last job I had, if you didn't learn to work out what was going on as it was happening right in front of you, you could end up dead. The priests here sanctify it in batches. We go through the most amazing amounts of it."

"The thing is, most civilians tend to react a bit more, uh, terrified when they see one for the first time," Sam admitted sheepishly.

She fixed him with the look that she'd used on him in class earlier that day. "You see this habit? You see this veil? I'm not a civilian, kid. Give me a couple more years, I'm going to be Mrs Jesus. Anyway," she shrugged, "If angels are real, it stands to reason that so are demons."

"You believe in angels?" Sam asked.

"I used to," the nun sighed, "Until I met one. Now I wish people wouldn't go around believing in them. I worry that it might just encourage them."

The Winchesters stared at her. "You... you've met an angel?" Sam was incredulous.

"Huh, don't be too impressed," Felicity told him, "They use willing humans as 'vessels', sort of like borrowed cars, so you can't see their wings – given a bit of a thunderstorm, you might see the shadows of them, though. They are utterly socially clueless, and take everything you say completely literally – oh, God, the time I told her to 'Bite me' is one I'd rather forget. And they have absolutely no grasp of the concept of Minimum Polite Distance." She swigged heartily. "What? It's true! Trust me. I'm a nun."

"We do, we believe you," Dean said hurriedly. "Because," his voice took on a hint of pride, "We know an angel too!"

She choked on a mouthful. "You know an angel?" It was her turn to sound dubious.

"Totally!" Dean smiled. "His name is Castiel – we call him Cas – and he's... uh... he's... a really important angel," he finished.

"He shares a 'profound bond' with Dean," supplied Sam helpfully, taking the bottle again and drinking heartily. "He does this Eye-Sex Stare Of Doom at him, until he squirms..."

Sister Felicity cocked her head at Dean. "So, what was his message?" she asked. "Did he manifest to discuss your vocation with you? Because, I don't want to be rude, to your or your angel, but you don't seem the, well, the monk or priest type..."

"No no no," Dean assured her, "He didn't want me to be a priest, he... uh... he..."

"He came to Dean's aid when he was in a really bad situation," Sam interceded smoothly, "And helped him out, so he could go on Hunting. Because he's such a good Hunter. And Cas wanted him to go on fighting the good fight." Sam took a drink. "He gripped him tight," he intoned seriously, "And raised him from Perdition."

"Really?" Sister Felicity looked thoughtful. "Did he do the Minimum Polite Distance thing?"

"Constantly," replied Dean gloomily, "He once told me that there's no expression for 'Personal Space' in Enochian. And if I had a dime for every time I've heard 'I don't understand that reference'..."

"Don't forget that time," Sam actually giggled, and waved the bottle eloquently, "That time, when you got angry, and you told him, 'You know what, Cas? Why don't you kiss my ass?', and Cas got that really serious look on his face, and he said 'Very well, Dean'..."

"I think you've had enough there, Samantha," Dean deftly removed the bottle from Sam's hand. "He's a lightweight," he told Sister Felicity.

"Well, let's just take it as read that angels and demons are real, then," she agreed, "Is that why you two are really here? To track down a demon? What was a demon doing here at St Clare's?"

"That is why we're here, yeah," Dean confessed, "Sam is the research guy. He figured out that demons were breaking into convents."

Sam nodded. "...And he tore your pants, bro..."

"Don't mind him, he's probably concussed," said Dean brusquely. "Anyway, he worked out that they were looking for something, but seemed to be concentrating on offices and information, rather than the churches themselves."

"...And you screamed like a girl..."

"We followed the pattern and picked here as the next most likely break-in target," Dean glared at his little brother.

"...And he got that really confused look on his face, you know, the one where he looks like a puppy trying to work out who just took the squeaky toy away..."

"Jimi found this by the altar," Dean elbowed Sam viciously and handed over the piece of paper. "The demon dropped it. We think it might be looking for these people. The numbers could be dates. Is there a Mr and Mrs Morgan associated with St Clare's here in Winchester?"

Sister Felicity stared at the paper. "Frank and Kathleen Morgan," she breathed. "F. & K. Frank and Kathleen Morgan."

"Do you know them?" asked Dean.

"Know them?" she looked up at him. "Yeah, I know them. Or, I knew them. They're dead now, three years ago. Frank's car was hit by a drunk driver, and Kathleen had a heart attack four months later." She looked back down at the paper. "They're not associated with the church here, though. They were from Kansas."

"Kansas?" Dean looked confused as Sam hiccuped gently. "So, how do you know them?"

"They were my parents. Well, they adopted me, when I was a baby." She pointed out the dates. "That's my birthday. And that's when I was adopted. When I was four days old. I was given up by an unmarried mother."

Her face assumed a smile that had Sam hearing double basses again. "I think you might have an answer to your search, guys. It looks like your demon was looking for me."

* * *

So, will he just quietly go to sleep, or must we deal with drunk!Sam?

Reviews are the Performance Enhancing Substances In The Water Bottle Of The Plot Bunny Enclosure Of Life! Review, and juice up the bunny!


	11. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

"She's okay, isn't she?" Sam grinned sunnily, and managed to get up out of the Impala on the second try. "For a nun. She was quick with the holy water."

"Yeah, she's okay," agreed Dean, putting an arm on Sam's shoulder to steer him towards their room. "For a smart-ass nun with a fetish about undressing people who don't need to be undressed and an unhealthy interest in counting their nipples.."

"She pulled your shirt up!" Sam tittered as Dean opened the door and led him inside. "And you went 'Eeeeeeep'!"

"Well, that disinfectant was cold," grumbled Dean, pointing Sam at his bed, where he sat down heavily.

"Sissy," Sam giggled, listing slowly to starboard until he was horizontal on his bed. "Oh, you fell sideways."

"No, Sam," Dean sighed, "I think you need to get ready for bed. We need your brain tomorrow to help figure out why a demon would be looking for Sister Fic."

"For the teeth," Sam declared with authority, nodding seriously.

Dean turned. "Teeth?" he sounded dubious.

"Yup," Sam nodded again. "They make sourver... souvens... sourever... veneers... they make necklaces and charms and stuff out of 'em," he explained.

Dean stared at his brother. "Teeth?" he repeated. "Demons make souvenirs out of nun's _teeth_?"

"Uh-huh," Sam confirmed.

Dean blinked. "What _for_?" he asked.

"I dunno," Sam shrugged. "Presents, and stuff." He hiccuped again. "You can get hundreds at a time from just one."

"_What?_" Dean paused in taking off his own boots. "From one _nun_?"

"Oh, yeah," Sam waved a hand. "Hundreds. Thousands, even. They have rows and rows of 'em."

"Sam," Dean moved to his brother's bed, and helped him to sit up again, "I think maybe you should go to bed."

"You can buy 'em on eBay," Sam told him, as Dean bent to work his brother's boots off.

"Really," Dean sighed.

"A Great White Nun can have three thousand teeth at any one time," Sam sounded awestruck.

"Amazing," said Dean, helping Sam out of his jacket.

"Over the last sixteen million years, they have evolved to become the perfect preder... prederer... preterdreter... pret... they kill stuff and eat it," he finished portentously.

"Incredible," agreed Dean, wiggling the plaid shirt off his little brother.

"Little is known about their mating habits," Sam continued as Dean lifted his legs onto the bed, "But unborn nuns do engage in intrauterine cannibalism." His voice dropped to an astonished whisper. "They eat their little brothers and sisters before they're even _born_," he breathed.

"The wonders of Nature, Sam," Dean couldn't help smiling at his brother. "That's why they call her a mother. Mind you," he mused, "There are times when I can understand where the little guys are coming from..."

"Next time we're in Florida, we could go to Orlando," Sam suggested hopefully, "And see Bruce, the rubber nun, at Universal Studios."

"I'll have the PA book it in our diary," he assured Sam, pushing gently until Sam was horizontal again, then pulling a blanket over him, "But for now, you just get some sleep so that brain will be ready for duty in the morning. We still have to figure out why a demon might be coming after Sister Fic."

"Who is she?" asked Sam.

"You know, Felicity Morgan, Sister Fic, the Great White Nun," Dean said patiently, sitting down on his own bed to get ready for sleep. "Hey, what sort of bite power do nuns generate?"

"A nun that's reached twenty feet can generate a bite force of eighteen thousand Newton," Sam replied immediately. "No, before she was Felicity Morgan. Who was she? Before she was twenty feet long?"

Dean paused and stared at his little brother. "That, Sam, may be a very good question," he replied thoughtfully. "The whole bloodline descent thing seems to be important to demons and angels and all sorts of unearthly assholes who take an unwanted interest in human affairs. Remind me to make a note of Father Callahan's preferred blend." He got into bed, and turned out the light. "Night, Sammy."

"Night, Dean._ hic!_"

Silence descended, broken only by the snuffling of Jimi as he settled on his blanket.

Then...

"_Daaaaaaaaa-dum..._"

"Hmmmf? What?"

"_Daaaaaaaaa-dum..._"

"Sam? Is that your phone?"

"_Daaaaaaaaa-dum..._"

"Sam? Is that you?"

"_DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum..._"

"Sam, knock it off! Go to sleep!"

"_Doodle-OOOOOOOOOOOO!_"

"Sam, if you don't shut up right now, so help me, giant boat-sinking man-eating nuns will be the least of your worries..."

"Hey, Dean, how many nipples do you have?"

"...Because... _huh_?"

"'Cause I thought I counted four, just before..."

"That's because you're drunk. Shut up and go to sleep."

"You're bossy."

"Sam..."

"And short."

"Sam, if you don't shut up and go to sleep, I will feed you to the nuns."

"Your left one does look a bit like Oprah Winfrey..."

"That's it, I am never letting you near alcohol again."

"Hey, Dean, what goes black-white-black-white-black-white?"

_Sigh_ "I don't know, Sam."

"A nun falling down some stairs!"

"I dare you to tell that one to Sister Fic."

"I'm gonna need a bigger boat."

"Shut up, bitch, and go to sleep."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They managed to sit through their diversion program class the next day, although Sam looked slightly green. didn't say much and clung to his coffee like a man clinging desperately to a life buoy after his boat has been sunk by a giant man-eating nun. Afterwards they lingered to speak to Sister Felicity.

"Booze Boy here had an idea last night," Dean told her, "Regarding why a demon might have been looking for you. Apparently, one of his neurons must've stayed sober – the designated thinker." Sam shot him a reproachful glare.

"Good, because I got nothing," she shrugged. "I'm really not anything special as a nun. I'm not even actually a nun yet! I'm only a novice!"

"It may not be the nun thing that they care about," Sam explained. "What demons – and angels – do care about, though, is bloodlines."

"Bloodlines?" echoed Felicity.

"Oh, yeah," nodded Dean, "Those assholes are more obsessed with pedigrees than the craziest dog people at Crufts. Do you know anything about your real family?"

"My Mom and Dad _were_ my real family," she said firmly. "But, as to my birth mother, well, no."

"Not even a name?" pressed Sam.

"They gave me a birth certificate with Mom and Dad's name on it," she told said, "But it's got my real birthday on it. I tried to track down my birth mother years ago but, well, I just kind of kept hitting brick walls. It's the law, you see. State, and church. At the time, it was thought that it was best for everybody if there was a clean, complete break when a child was given up. Some kids didn't even get told they were adopted." She paused. "I started looking again, not long ago. Now that Mom and Dad are gone, I thought, well, I'd give it another try."

"Any luck?" asked Dean.

"I got a letter just before I arrived here," she responded, "Giving me pretty much the party line. Records are patchy, can't find anything, probably been lost now, prevailing attitudes at the time, yada yada yada. But the archivist did suggest that I could talk to one of the nuns who worked there at the time. She could be about 117 by now, though..."

"Sister Fic, it could be really important," Sam said earnestly. "If there's any avenue at all we could chase up to find out who your family was, it could be linked to the convent break-ins."

"I could apply for a leave of absence, to go find out," Felicity mused. "In fact, I get the distinct impression that they might be glad to be rid of me for a few days. Apparently, calling in the cops did cause a bit of a stir – about half the class were found to be in breach." She grinned with an evil satisfaction. "I do love me a goat roast!"

"Getting you away from here might be a good idea anyway," Dean added, "That demon wasn't killed – it was only sent back Downstairs. It looked like there might've been more than one searcher; if that was just a minion reporting back to a more powerful demon, they might wonder what's brought a couple of Hunters here, and come back after you again. We can keep you safe, but not if they come after you like they really mean it."

"Well, I'll see what I can do," the nun assured them, "But I gotta tell you, it's gonna look pretty damned strange. It sounds like the beginning of a joke: 'Two guys, a nun, and a Rottweiler got into a classic car, and went on a road trip'. Not exactly inconspicuous. The phrase 'stick out like a sore thumb' comes to mind."

"Actually, I might have an idea about that," Sam said.

"Sam," Dean began levelly, "If you mention nun's teeth, rubber sharks, or intrauterine cannibalism, I will punch you."

"No, nothing like that," Sam reassured them as Sister Felicity shot a bewildered look at Dean and mouthed _What the fuck? _ "But if Sister Fic can get leave to go to Kansas, I think it will keep us off the radar."

"Are you suggesting that I go plain clothes?" asked the nun.

"No," Sam elaborated. "I'm suggesting that we hide in plain sight..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sister Felicity was granted a leave of absence, and immediately went about doing something that would mean she had more theft to confess...

"Although, technically, it's not theft," she told the Winchesters later that evening when they returned to meet up and finalise their plans. "Since I have no intention of permanently depriving the legitimate owner of this property. I will make sure that it is returned. So, really, it's just borrowing. You can trust me, I'm a nun."

The next day...

Two guys, a nun, and a Rottweiler got into a classic car, and went on a road trip.

"I hate this plan," grumbled Dean.

"It's a good plan," argued Sam.

"It's a fucking hilarious plan," grinned Sister Felicity, minus her veil, from the back seat.

"Rowf!" went Jimi, adding his approval at having a travelling companion.

"Seriously," Sam went on, "Sister Fic is right. It would look really weird if we were travelling with a nun. And think of the money we'll save on accommodation! Plus, this way, we can stick close to her, and be on hand if the demons come looking."

"It will take us two more days to get to Kansas," Sister Felicity pointed out, "And if we do have to deal with demons, we'll be close to sources of holy water, relics, blessed salt, the sorts of things that you can use against them."

"I still hate this plan," griped Dean. "Why do I have to be the one with the assistance dog?"

"If there are demons involved, we'll need Jimi," Sam said firmly.

"You cheated," Dean snapped.

"Dean," Sam rolled his eyes and gave his big brother a full strength _Bitchface_ #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), "We did rock-paper-scissors four times! You lost!"

"The kitchen at St Cecile's in Wheeling is worth the trip," wheedled Sister Felicity. "There's this nun, Sister Matthias, from Germany, she's older than Methuselah, and nearly blind, but she still loves her work in the kitchen and she does the most fantastic pastries, her pie is just to die for."

"Pie?" Dean emerged from his grumbling.

"Pie," confirmed Sister Felicity. "And she's something of a dog lover. You'll have seconds pressed on you before you know it."

Not too far out of Winchester, they found a deserted stretch of road. "I guess here is as good as anywhere," sighed Dean, pulling the Impala off the road. He headed for the trunk.

"You need any help?" she asked the Winchesters as she repositioned her veil.

"No!" yapped Dean sternly, "And no peeking!"

"Dean," Sam sighed.

"I don't care if she's a nun," grumbled Dean, "I don't want her counting my nipples. It's not right."

Chuckling to herself, the nun settled for helping Jimi into his harness.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sister Angela had been Sister Porteress at St Cecile's for the last ten years, and was well versed in the vagaries of paperwork that never arrived before the people whose travel and accommodation arrangements it was meant to document; therefore, she was really not surprised to hear a car engine rumble into the wide drive unexpectedly. It was one of life's little trials, she'd decided long ago.

She watched a novice and a priest emerge from the front seats; another priest got out of the back. She thought it was strange that he would be wearing dark glasses at night, but the reason became clear when a dog wearing a working harness jumped down after him, nudging his leg until he picked up the handle.

"I'm so terribly sorry, Sister Angela," Sister Felicity apologised meekly to her, "Our paperwork must've been held up at Mother House."

"Oh, it wouldn't be the first time," Sister Angela confided. "No doubt, it will arrive a couple of weeks after you've left." She turned to the two priests behind the novice. "Good evening, Fathers," she greeted them.

"Good evening, Sister," smiled the younger one, with a dimpled smile that she reflected might've given her something to confess forty years ago. "I'm Father Malcolm, and this," he indicated the other priest, "Is Father Angus."

"Hello, Sister," Father Angus put out a hand for her to shake. "We are so sorry to trouble you like this."

"Oh, it's no trouble," Sister Angela assured them. "And who is this? Your dog, Father."

"This is Jimi," Father Angus smiled, "Guide dog extraordinaire." The Rottweiler whuffed cheerfully, and offered her a paw to shake.

"Well, you are all most welcome," she told them, "Please come with me. Have you eaten? Would you like some supper? Sister Matthias made a particularly wonderful apple pie tonight, I know I'll have to confess both envy and gluttony before Sunday..."

She showed the three of them in, and took them through to a small dining room off the kitchen. Sister Matthias was still pottering about in the kitchen, and she immediately emerged from her domain and began to fuss over Sister Felicity, Father Angus and Father Malcolm. She also shook hands with Jimi, praising him as a magnificent animal. She was an hospitable person by nature, and Sister Angela couldn't help smiling when the elderly nun slipped the dog a piece of pie too.

* * *

Reviews are the Giant Man-Eating Nuns Circling The People You Can't Stand In The Bathtub Of Life! (They won't have a big enough boat...)

Oh, yes, if I find any teeth-marks in Sam, I will come looking for you, Leahelisabeth *frowns*.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Dean: **Isn't it amazing how these Denizens always want to put us up on a pedestal?

**Sam (clutching cassock around his knees): **They're only doing it so they can look up our man-dresses.

**Dean:** Does that one have a leaf blower?

**Sam:** Aaaaaargh! I fear a Marilyn Monroe moment may be imminent!

**Dean:** Oh, I wish I'd put on a better pair of shorts this morning!

**Sam:** I'm going to stomp on that damned plot bunny...

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

"How was your breakfast, Father?" asked Sister Matthias.

"Beyond perfect, thank you, Sister," Dean smiled happily. "If you weren't a Bride of Christ, I would leave the Church, and marry you myself."

The elderly nun made a tutting noise, and shook her head, but she didn't really manage to sound too scandalised. "Young people today," she muttered, "They say the most outrageous things." Nonetheless, she slipped Jimi a piece of bacon, and he thumped his tail gratefully on the floor.

"You're supposed to be a priest!" Sam hissed at his brother, who merely sipped at his coffee and burped. "Don't do that!"

"Hey, priests are human, too," Dean protested. "I hear they even fart, sometimes." He smiled as a younger nun approached to clear their plates.

"Would you like more coffee, Fathers?" she asked.

"That would be wonderful, thank you, Sister," Dean's Killer Smile slid into place. "Do you think it's too soon to send flowers to Sister Matthias? Be honest – do I have a chance?"

The younger woman just giggled, and retreated for the kitchen.

"You are incurable," grumbled Sam.

"Hey, it'll give them something to gossip about," Dean said easily, "So it's an act of charity."

"They're nuns, Dean," Sam reminded him, "They don't gossip!"

"They're women, Sam," Dean replied, "Of course they gossip. They just have to confess about it at some point. But for now, think about the fun they'll have, talking about the blind priest who had a thing for Sister Matthias. Did you see that Sister Evelyn who took the plates? What a waste. I bet she was a runner before she signed up for nunification – the habit cannot hide anything from the Living Sex God, I could bounce pennies off that ass. I bet she'd giggle if I... oh, shit," he groaned. Checking to make sure nobody was around to see him, he took his watch out of his pocket, and reset it. "I might as well as be a priest," he announced in a sad tone, "I'm doomed never to break this chastity curse anyway."

"You will, bro, you will," Sam assured him. "You've been going longer and longer between... occasions of sin."

"Aren't you getting bored?" Dean enquired. "I mean, I know how educational you must find my descriptions of past... occasions of sin."

"I'll live," grunted Sam, finishing his own coffee. "We should get going. Sister Fic wants to look through the records at St Basil's, as some documents were moved there when the convent in Topeka was refurbished." He grinned. "St Basil's, Dean! The saint that gave you your baptismal name, no less! Maybe you can pray for a miraculous decursing. Oh Saint Basil, who art on high, we do humbly beseech thee, remove this curse from thy modest and pious namesake, Dean Basil Winchester, that he might shut the hell up and stop whining..."

"Shut up, Samuel Francis," Dean growled. "Or maybe I'll pray for you miraculously getting a haircut, then attack you with the clippers."

"It would hardly be a miraculous haircut if you did it," Sam pointed out.

"The Lord helps those who help themselves, Sammy," smirked Dean. "Why pester God with your girly emo hair when I could deal with it myself? Besides, He wouldn't cut it short enough. I've seen pictures of what He let His own kid get away with."

"Jerk."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Why can't I sit in the front?" Dean sounded about three years old.

"Because it would be usual for you to sit in the back with your guide dog," Sam told him. "See? Jimi's really loving having you back there with him." The dog was snuggled into Dean, with his big square head resting contentedly in his Alpha's lap, snoring gently. In fact, he was so relaxed, he did what dogs often do when they nap in the car.

"Oh, gross!" snapped Dean, flapping a hand, "What the hell did that nun feed him?"

"I don't smell anything," Sister Felicity sniffed, "Oh, wait, that's... is one of you wearing lavender cologne? I'm impressed. It takes a man secure in his masculinity to smell that nice."

"It's Jimi," Sam explained, "Something to do with his Hellhound heritage. You know how dog flatulence usually smells really bad? Well, apparently, in Hell, the smell of lavender counts as a disgusting stench."

"Free aromatherapy," she smiled, "I like it."

"Dean hates it," Sam told her. "He probably thinks it counteracts his testosterone, or something."

"I got a draft up my man-dress," Dean complained.

"We could stop and get you some stockings," suggested Sister Felicity.

"Stockings?" Dean screwed his nose up. "No way! Stockings are all right on women, in fact, I really like stockings on women, if there's also suspender involvement, and possibly corsets, oh, yeah, but men do NOT... oh, crap," he sighed, taking out his watch to reset it again.

"Some priests wear 'em when it's cold," she shrugged. "What's with him, Sam?" she jerked a thumb backwards. "That's the second time he's said 'Oh, crap', and reset his watch."

"Hey, 'him' is right here," grumped Dean, "I'm supposed to be blind, not deaf. I got a chastity curse on me. Some asshole jealous warlock put a curse on me, and any time I try to, uh, succumb to an occasion of sin, it hurts too much. I have to be, uh, outwardly chaste for twenty-four hours to break it."

Understanding dawned in Felicity's eyes. "Ah, and hence the avoiding of 'occasions of sin', then?"

"Yeah," sighed Dean. "It's totally cramping my style. Plus, we have nothing to talk about."

"Nothing to talk about?" she sounded confused.

"Oh, yeah," Sam rolled his eyes, "Most of our time on the road, in diners, on stake-outs and even in the occasional hospital waiting room is spent with Dean relating to me, in excruciating detail, one of his sexcapades."

"Only now I can't," Dean added miserably. "I have to be outwardly chaste. To break the curse. Who's going to continue with Sam's education if I can't?"

"What sort of education?" queried Felicity.

"He's a great big girl," scoffed Dean, "Who needs to... find an occasion of sin. You need to get... sinful, Sam."

"Interesting," noted Sister Felicity, "Most boys go through a stage as toddlers where they discover that their dick is attached to them, and they're absolutely fascinated by it, just can't leave it alone. Are you telling me, Dean never grew out of that?"

"Pretty much," sighed Sam. "Since before I was a teenager, I have been subjected to a running monologue of the times, places and circumstances of The Living Sex God's 'beautiful natural acts'. I should probably be in therapy. These days, it would constitute child abuse."

"I was just trying to give you some good advice, so you'd know what to do when you were old enough for... occasions of sin," Dean protested.

"Makes me glad to have been an only child," chuckled Sister Felicity. "This could be divine intervention, you know."

"Huh?" Dean's eyebrows shot up.

"Could be," she elaborated, "If you usually spend the whole time talking about Chicks I Have Banged, maybe this is something that has been orchestrated in order to save my delicate nunly ears from such wanton and sinful talk." She turned around and gave Dean a pitying look. "It's probably some sort of unforgiveable sin to talk dirty in front of a nun, anyway," she told him, "If you did, God would probably be really pissed."

Sam burst out laughing. "You think?" he chortled.

"Oh, definitely," Sister Felicity nodded solemnly. "I'm betrothed, remember. The whole Bride of Christ thing? Technically, He'll be my father-in-law. And when you died, my fiancé would probably tear your balls off with His own bare hands."

Sam laughed even louder.

"You know, I get the distinct impression that nunning is not the first career you've had," said Dean, grumpily changing the subject. "Unless you belong to some warrior ninja nun cult or something."

"Police officer," she said, "I was in the job for twenty years."

"Yeah?" Sam snuffled his laughter to a halt. "How did that happen? Was your dad a cop?"

"No, he was a doctor," she replied. "So was Mom. Everybody thought I would be, too. I even started studying for it – I got a scholarship to Brown, and did okay on the MCAT..."

"What did you get?" asked Sam.

"43.4T," Felicity answered offhandedly.

"Fuck me," muttered Sam. "You got a licence to carry that brain?"

"Careful, Sam," snarked Dean, "You don't want Jesus coming along and tearing your balls off for make lewd suggestions to his girlfriend." He looked at Felicity. "So, did you go learn to stick your hands up people's... anatomy?"

"For a while," Felicity shrugged, "But I discovered that I didn't really have the temperament for it. If you want to be a doctor, you have to have a capacity to deal politely and compassionately with stupid people. It just wasn't... me. So, I joined the Force."

"Where you could deal with stupid people less.. politely," grinned Dean.

"Something like that," she agreed with a grin of her own. "But it did mean that I had to work with other people who weren't always the politest specimens on the planet. I had one partner who was a bit like Dean, I suspect. Every shift, all he could talk about was what he'd done, with whom, where, and how many pieces of furniture got broken."

"Oh, I feel your pain," Sam told her with heartfelt empathy.

"I'm pretty sure he made some of them up," she went on, "For example, he told me once about this time he met this girl, and she had this thing that looked like a clothes horse, and it turns out, it was a saddle stand – she rode showjumpers – anyway..."

"Er, I don't think we need to hear this," Sam cut in hurriedly, "We don't want to sabotage Dean's efforts to break his curse."

"Oh, I could stand to hear a little more," Dean announced sunnily. "So long as I sit here, and keep my mouth shut and my hands to myself, and look chaste on the outside, it's all good, right?" He beamed at Sister Felicity. "Do go on, Sister."

"Okay, well, anyway, it was a saddle stand, and then she had this pair of top boots, and then she put on a pair of spurs..."

"What happened to not being lewd in front of nuns?" Sam demanded.

"It's okay, I'm safe," Sister Felicity assured him, "I don't have any balls for God to tear off."

"Oh, God," wailed Sam, "I don't believe this!"

"Could be divine intervention, Sammy," Dean waggled his eyebrows. "Sister Fic has been sent to continue your education whilst I can't! Please do continue, Sister Felicity, you have such a lovely speaking voice."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

That was a most... interesting story, Sister Fic," Dean nodded thoughtfully. "And whilst I accept that you believe that your partner may have been making things up, I believe that he could well have been telling the truth."

"Surely not!" scoffed Sister Felicity. "The bit about the spa pool? Nobody can hold their breath that long."

"With training, human beings can learn to hold their breath for minutes at a time," Dean reminded her. "Traditional pearl divers are just one example. Many swimmers regularly do anaerobic drills during their training, in which they swim freestyle but take very few breaths per lap."

"And battery powered toys aren't safe underwater, surely they'd just short out and stop working," the nun alleged.

"I am given to believe that waterproof items are available for sale," Dean countered. "Perhaps it was one of those items made specifically for use in water in this case."

"Well, you can't convince me that pieces of chocolate wouldn't just melt, and, I don't know, just sort of get swirled away..."

"That would most likely depend on the proportion of cocoa butter versus other vegetable fats in the chocolate..."

"Stop it!" It came out more like a shriek than Sam had intended. "Stop it! Both of you!" He glared at Sister Felicity with a Bitchface™ that as yet had no designation, but would probably be something like I SO Do NOT Want To Hear A Nun Talk About This Sort Of Thing. "You sound like him!" he accused Sister Felicity. "And you, Dean, will you listen to yourself? You sound like Cas!"

"Just trying to remain outwardly chaste, Sam," Dean replied serenely. "And listen politely, as our guest regales us with anecdotes from her previous career."

"Well, don't!" demanded Sam. "Talk about her current career!" He let out a huff. "Maybe tell us how you decided to become a nun."

"I told you, an angel visited me," Sister Felicity replied. "I'd been questioning whether there was something, I don't know, something more important I should be doing, and I'd talked to a priest about it, and then, one night, this angel showed up to tell me there was work for me to do."

"Yeah?" Dean let the debate about the feasibility of certain lewd aquatic activities go. "So, what happened?"

"A strange woman who looked remarkably like my third grade teacher just appeared as I was getting out of the shower, and scared the shit out of me," confided Felicity frankly.

"Been there, done that," muttered Dean. "So, what did you do?"

"What do you think I did?" snorted the nun. "I punched her with everything I had, and broke my hand. Very embarrassing. Then, when she showed up again in a parking lot, I emptied a clip into her, and she just looked at me like I'd done something confusing."

"Don't even bother to try stabbing them," sighed Dean, "They just do that look."

"Anyway, she kept turning up until I agreed to listen to her," Sister Felicity. So, I entered St Claire's as a postulant, survived the incident with the possessed microwave, and made it through to my novitiate, and now, here I am, being hunted down by a demon for reasons unknown, on the road with two Hunters posing as priests and a half-Hellhound masquerading as a guide dog, trying to find out who my birth mother was. I'm just a regular gal, really."

When the gates of St Basil's finally came into view, Sam breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank fuck," he muttered, "Because I think that if I had to listen to you, I mean, really, a nun, talking about stuff like that, for much longer, seriously, my head was gonna explode." He gave Felicity a betrayed look. "I'd always thought that nuns were, well, godly women, poverty, obedience, chastity, compassion for the poor and sick and disadvantaged and overwhelmed."

"I'm not a nun yet, kiddo," she grinned back at him, "I'm only a novice. Come on, you can help me search through the records, and I promise not to make a single smutty comment. I'll even say the Offices in Latin, if you like." The car came to a stop, and she opened the door. "You'll like the archivist here, Sister Helen. She's very organised, and loves to help people poke through her files. I'm sure she'll be happy to have you go rummaging through her indices."

"Is that what they're call it these days? Ohhhh, Sam, you'll have such fun, rummaging through a nun's indices, and poking her files," Dean waggled his eyebrows behind the glasses. "Depending on what you're poking with, maybe she can get a hallelujah out of you... oh, damn." He quickly reset his watch, sighed, then got out of the car and picked up the handle of Jimi's harness in readiness to greet Sister Porteress.

* * *

Blasphemy is more fun in the Jimiverse - even the nuns enjoy it.

Reviews are the Delicious Pieces Of Chocolate To Snack On In The Spa Pool Of Life!*

*You may have the Winchester Of Your Choice bring the chocolate to you if you like. No pulling them in and getting them all wet, the chlorine is not good for Dean's jacket or Sam's hair.


	13. Chapter Twelve

_*splash* *splash*_

**Dean (paddling): **Aaaargh! What happened?

**Sam (treading water): **Somebody pushed us! Hey, where's your jacket?

**Dean: **I dunno. Why are you wearing a bathing cap?

_Daaaaaaaa-dum_

**Dean: **Did you hear a double bass?

_Daaaaaaa-dum_

**Sam: **Oh no! Are there nuns in here?

**Dean: **Worse, I think there might be… Denizens...

_DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum DUM dum_

**Sam:** Oh God, something just bit me!

**Dean:** EEEEEEEEP! Something just did the most dreadful thing with a piece of chocolate!

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

"I guess we could make a start," Sam said, after the nuns in the refectory had served them a late lunch, "At least introduce ourselves to Sister Helen the archivist, and get an idea of how much we have to go through."

"Attaboy, Sammy," Dean encouraged, "You two brainiacs can go nerd it up – don't do anything to upset Sister Helen – whilst I will retire to our room to digest lunch."

"It would look a lot more priestly if you went and spent some time in the chapel," suggested Sister Felicity. "You don't have to do much – I suspect that Father Callahan naps in the confessional, sometimes – but it would look good."

"If anybody asks, tell them I'm working on a homily," Dean waved a hand dismissively.

"Dean," Sam began in a warning tone, "If you freeze the laptop on one of your disgusting porn sites, you'll just end up having to reset your watch on your curse-breaking. Plus, I'll be really annoyed at having to clean it up. Again."

"Yeah, I guess I shouldn't," Dean sighed, "Not with this curse." He paused thoughtfully. "Hey, does it count as breaking my outward chastity if I do or say something unchaste but there's nobody to see me?"

"Yes it does," Sam replied quickly, "So, no porn."

"Damn." Dean stood. "Okay, I'll give the dog collar a public airing later," he announced, taking hold of Jimi's harness. "Try not to get too excited with all that paper in one place. You'd better have a bucket of cold water to dump over him just in case, Sister Fic."

"Jerk."

Dean headed back to the spartan but clean room the nuns had shown Father Angus and Father Malcolm to. He let out a stifled bark of outrage when he discovered that Sam had deleted his Porn, Other Porn and Other Other Porn folders (again), so he whiled away some time surfing car magazine sites and watching re-runs of Doctor Sexy. Then, never having been one who could sit still for long if he didn't have to, he decided to head into the chapel, if only to look a bit priestly, just to keep Sam from bitchfacing at him later.

He genuflected – Jimi dropped beside him then stood again, and Dean heard the two older ladies already there titter at the dog's mirroring of his kneeling – then seated himself in a pew. It was actually kind of peaceful, he decided, surreptitiously looking up at the stained glass windows without raising his head. Yep, he decided, Michael was definitely a sissy. A bully, and a sissy. The Living Sex God was way too handsome to be the vessel for an angel who was happy enough to be depicted looking like a cross-dressing Bette Midler impersonator. In fact, he liked him a whole lot better with a dog as a vessel.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sister Louise, Mother Superior of St Basil's, had been worrying about the bout of 'flu that had been doing the rounds in recent weeks, knocking over both religious and lay personnel alike. They had ended up short-staffed for a number of the programs and activities that usually ran, and when Father O'Brien succumbed, leaving just a sniffling but fading Father Roderigues to soldier on, she was at her wits' end. Then, on top of that, they'd had visitors arrive unannounced the day before – the paperwork for such short stays often got lost, but it was one more thing to worry about, when she had so much on her plate already.

She was walking past the chapel, and happened to glance in, when she spotted Father Angus and his guide dog.

It was a revelation. Possibly even a Revelation.

Her residual annoyance at her unannounced guests evaporated in a flash of understanding, and she smiled to herself. It made perfect sense. She entered the chapel, genuflected, and made her way to his pew.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Father Angus?" Dean heard a tentative voice behind him, and turned.

"Hello Reverend Mother," he smiled for the older nun, who looked decidedly flustered. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, Father Angus, I am so terribly sorry to disturb you," she said, "But I'm afraid we have something of an emergency on our hands."

"Er, an emergency?" echoed Dean anxiously, standing up.

"Yes," Mother Superior stated. "I'm afraid that Father O'Brien is not well. We have a number of people unwell at the moment – some terrible strain of the 'flu, honestly, it's been like the house of the living dead, here – and he was due to take his class. Oh, Father Angus," she took hold of his elbow, "I know it's short notice, but could I possibly impose upon you to stand in for him?"

"Er, what class is this?" Dean asked dubiously.

"Oh, it's part of the Human Development curriculum, for the tenth to twelfth graders from St Catherine's," she replied as she steered him back up the nave, a small black tugboat effortlessly manoeuvring a reluctant ship out of its berth and into the shipping lane. "Thankfully, Sister Juanita is still well enough to take the girls, but poor Father O'Brien, between you and me, I think he has enough trouble dealing with them at any time, and this is such an important aspect of their spiritual development, it's something that I really don't think any of them should miss out on, and I'm sure you'll do just fine with them..."

She kept talking as they made their way back through the main building, towards a classroom. Dean knew it was a classroom; he could hear the muffled sounds of an unsupervised class as they approached.

"Uh, so, what exactly is this 'Human Development' curriculum?" he asked, having a horrible premonition about what the answer would be.

"Well, it covers a gamut of issues that young people need to be educated about," Mother Superior explained, "From the biology of human reproduction, to the religious and spiritual aspects of becoming an adult." She took hold of the door handle, and opened the door. The pandemonium associated with a classroom packed with 16 to 18 year old boys spilled out.

"Boys!" Mother Superior called in a loud voice, "Boys! Quiet! Quiet!" The riot of horseplay, tallking and general mayhem continued around her. "SILENCE!" she bellowed in a most unnunly fashion. The noise level gradually dropped around her. "Boys," she went on, "I'm most terribly sorry to tell you that Father O'Brien is not well, and cannot take your class today. He's been in bed all week, with the doctor."

"Is she hot?" asked someone to Dean's left, which was followed by a generalised sniggering.

"However, we are most fortunate to have Father Angus here visiting, and he has agreed to take today's class," she went on, smiling brightly, "So, I'll leave you to it!"

"Er, thank you?" replied Dean hesitantly. "Oh, uh," he dropped his voice to a whisper. "Reverend Mother, what was the topic of today's, um, discussion going to be?"

"Oh, today is 'The Joy Of Monogamy and the Sanctity Of Marriage'," she informed him. "I shall come back at the end of class."

"Oh. Great." Dean offered her a smile that was more a gritting of teeth, and made his way, with Jimi, to the front of the classroom. He turned, and from behind the glasses, he saw bored, sullen eyes fixed on him, the way that a bunch of wolves might sit around looking at a crippled rabbit – _We're not going to tear you to pieces just yet; first of all, we're going to watch to see if you do a trick._

Maybe Father O'Brien did have the 'flu, he thought. Or maybe he was just a cunning old bastard who knew the fine art of well-timed sandbagging.

"So," he addressed the class, "What did Father O'Brien talk about last time?"

Mother Superior closed the door behind her, and breathed a sigh of relief. She was sure that he would be just fine. He was, after all, a young man, as priests went. And if things got really rowdy, she was prepared to bet that the dog could hold off most of them if necessary.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Wow," breathed Sam, taking in the jumbled stack of boxes piled haphazardly in the dusty store room.

"That's nothing," Sister Helen sniffed in amusement. "I've actually managed to work my way through about a third of it so far. I tried to get them to put stuff in the same order it was removed, but when it was stashed away at St Claire's, I think it was done in a hurry, without much thought as to retrieving it later. The damp had gotten to some of it, but I've separated the damaged boxes where I could."

"Throws us in at the deep end," mused Sister Felicity, shaking her head. "Well, thank you, Sister Helen. We can start with what you've catalogued, then we'll check as much of this as we can, I guess."

"It's worth a shot," Sam agreed, "You never know, we might find something. At least we have a date to look for."

They quickly worked through the list of documents that had been archived, but they were much later than what they were interested in, so they made a start on checking the dates in the boxes.

They'd been at it for about an hour when an older nun, in the habit of the fully professed, came in.

"Oh, hello Reverend Mother," Sam greeted her, taking in the look on Mother Superior's face. "What's wrong?"

"It's Father Roderigues," said the senior nun, "He's been feeling ill for a few days, and he's collapsed and had to go to bed. And he was meant to be hearing confession!" She took hold of his elbow. "I'm afraid I am here for nefarious purposes, Sister Felicity," she beamed, "I have come to steal Father Malcolm away from you!"

"Er," went Sam.

"Oh, I'm so sorry to impose upon you with no notice," Mother Superior apologised, all engines ahead full as she got the SS Reluctant Priest moving, "But there really is nobody else. This terrible 'flu, it's been hitting everyone. I fear that it's a sad inevitability when our priests, frankly, tend to be men who are not young anymore..."

"Er, I, uh," went Sam.

"Go ahead, Father," Sister Felicity smiled, "I'm sure I can manage here until you are done."

"What the hell do I do?" Sam hissed _sotto voce_ for Sister Felicity's ears only.

"Just sit and listen and try not to fall asleep!" she hissed back. "Or at least don't snore. And try not to laugh!"

"You are a godsend, Father Malcolm, and absolute godsend," said Mother Superior, once she had Sam under tow and steaming along on the desired course, "I could almost believe that you arrived here because we would need you!"

"Well, uh, God does work in mysterious ways," he agreed nervously. "Or possibly also ridiculous ways," he muttered to himself.

She finally let go of him when they arrived in the chapel. There were a number of women waiting, reading their missals or holding their rosary beads. A couple of them looked up, saw Sam, and began to fuss with their clothes and mantillas.

With a final encouraging smile from Mother Superior, Sam gave her a small uncertain smile back, and folded himself into one side of the confessional. It was dark. It was claustrophobic. It was clearly designed for priests well under the six-foot-four mark...

He took a couple of deep breaths, and told himself to stop being silly. This shouldn't be a problem – he was familiar with the rite: confess your sins, ask forgiveness, then receive absolution and a penance. His initial trepidation had probably been a bit of a panic reflex, he decided. He could do this, and if people didn't know that he wasn't a real priest, and he wasn't actually dealing out kosher absolution (and that right there was a bit of terminology he didn't want to dwell on for too long), then he was pretty certain that God would forgive them, although he might well earn himself a smiting, karmic if not actual, for impersonating a man of the cloth.

All he had to do was listen to them, maybe give brief advice or a reality check, and send them on their way feeling cleansed. Oh, and squelch the impulse to scream for his big brother to come and rescue him from the scary dark little box.

The first penitent moved into the other side of the confessional, so he cleared his throat and slid open the panel.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," said a husky female voice. "It has been a week since my last confession."

"Very well," Sam replied, in what he hoped was an authoritative yet reassuring priestish voice, "Tell me your sins."

"Father," the voice hesitated, "Father, I am an unmarried woman, but I have been having... impure thoughts."

"Impure thoughts?" Sam said.

"Impure thoughts," she confirmed. "I have them."

"Uh, okaaaaay," Sam mused. "Impure thoughts. Well, the thing about having impure thoughts, is that it's a very human thing. What's important is how you choose to act, when you have impure thoughts..."

"I have a _lot _of impure thoughts," the voice went on.

"A lot, huh?" Sam nodded. "How, er, how often do you have these, um, impure thoughts?"

"Oh, all the time," the voice continued, sounding alarmingly like it was warming to its theme. "Let me tell you about the one with the bearskin rug in front of a fireplace..."

* * *

So, for the Sam-In-A-Box fans, is Sam-In-A-Confessional adequate? It does sound to me like he's about to be tortured...

Reviews are the Impure Thoughts On The Bearskin Rug In Front Of The Fireplace Of Life!


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

"So, then," Dean gave the class his brightest smile, "I'm Father Angus, and I have been roped in by the chief penguin to take your class today, because Father O'Brien is not well."

"In bed with the doctor," chortled a boy to his right. The sniggering ran around the room again, and the class began to talk amongst themselves once more.

"Half his luck," grunted Dean, inwardly cursing and reminding himself to reset his watch. "So, uh, you've been talking about... Human Development."

"How to have babies," supplied another boy helpfully, and the sniggering rippled again.

"Right, right," Dean nodded, raising his voice over the increasing volume of background chatter. "Is there, um, a work book, or something?"

"We got this," another, slumped with his face in one hand, listlessly waved a booklet that had an anatomically improbable dick drawn on the cover. "It's crap, though."

"Hey, guys!" called Dean, as the noise rose to a dull roar. They ignored him. "Guys! Uh, could you read out where you were up to?"

The booklet-waver let out a sigh that indicated just how onerous the task was going to be, and shuffled through the pages. Behind him, another gutted his pen and assiduously prepared a spitball.

"The Sanctity of Marriage," read the put-upon pupil, his tone indicating exactly what he thought of that particular sacrament. "Marriage is one of the holiest relationships that a person may enter. It is a sanctified bond between man and woman, in the sight of God, intended to unite a man and a woman in conjugal love and grace, that they might bring forth children..." the reader paused, and yawned. "What's conjugal love, anyway?"

"It's a polite way of saying fucking," snapped Dean. "WILL YOU LOT SHUT THE HELL UP?" he bellowed.

The room was suddenly silent.

"It really doesn't make a lot of sense," he mused, considering the matter. "I mean, having a priest to talk to you about this sort of thing? Advice on fucking, from the fuckless. How is that supposed to be helpful?" he asked the universe in general.

The class eyed him warily. "Incidentally, if you spit that at me, I will have my dog tear your hand off," he remarked casually. The culprit, who had been bringing the pen to his mouth, froze. "I got real good hearing," smirked Dean. "I fell down a well full of bats when I was a child, and I can do echo-location. So, the Sanctity of Marriage," he went on thoughtfully. "I don't know what I'm supposed to tell you about that – I've never been married."

"How about the Joy Of Monogamy?" Even if Dean had actually been blind, he would've been able to hear the accompanying eye-roll.

"Do you guys know what monogamy means?" he asked.

Somebody called out, "It means, only going with one girl."

"Right, right," Dean nodded, "It means, getting together with one girl, and staying with her, for good. No others." Of course, he reflected, he wasn't really in a position to teach anybody about _that_, either. There was really only one aspect of This Sort Of Thing that the Living Sex God was capable of lecturing to anybody about; and if he was going to be stuck with a class of bored high-schoolers for an hour, he might as well as teach them something that would benefit them…

"Of course, at your age, what monogamy means is, going with one girl at a time. Because not only is two-timing a woman the act of a true asshole, it'll likely get you slapped across the face or kicked in the nuts at the very least." There was a ripple of laughter again. "I think that some of you might already have found that out," he went on, "Because let's not kid ourselves here, a good percentage of you are already screwing your brains out, and the rest of you have seen footage or pictures of it, and are just waiting until you can find a willing partner with a pulse."

There was shocked silence in the class. The would-be spitballer dropped his pen.

The wolves had wondered if the rabbit might do a trick; they certainly hadn't expected it to sit up and snarl knowingly at them.

"Don't play coy with me, guys," grinned Dean, "I was a teenager once. And the basic, unescapable fact is, sex is fun! You all know it – the ones that have done it know for sure, and the rest of you who jerk off at least once a day, you won't believe how much better it is than that!"

"Um," a hesitant voice spoke, "I thought that we're not supposed to, you know... or, you know... before marriage?"

"Ideally, no," Dean waved a hand airily, "But part of the problem with God, and the Church, as I see it, is that too often it all deals in theoretical absolutes, and forgets that people are human. And humans are imperfect. We're not always going to act exactly the way God, or the angels, or the Church want us to. Why do you think we have confession? Come on, if we weren't supposed to enjoy sex, why did God make it so awesome?"

"Did He do it to tempt us?" asked a boy.

"Nope, temptation is Lucifer's schtick," Dean replied, "I think God made sex fun because He likes to see His mortal children happy. And He also likes to hear us call out His name so enthusiastically, what an ego boost..."

The class laughed out loud at that.

"So, they way I see it, if you are going to have sex – and you're teenagers, so you are – the best thing you can do, is to start practising your monogamy, so by the time you decide to get married, you'll be really good at sticking with one person."

"So, how do you know when you've found the right person?" came the question.

"No idea – I've never been married," shrugged Dean, "But I do think that if you want to be happily married, you have to work at it. You have to be able to keep each other happy. And that," he declared, "Is what I think we should talk about. How to make a woman happy in the sack. Because I suspect you guys haven't figured out exactly just how good that can feel, too, knowing that you've made her toes curl. And if you're going to do something, you should do it as well as you possibly can. So," he clapped his hands, "Who knows what an 'erogenous zone' is?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam closed his eyes, and tried to breathe slowly. He could feel his pulse racing. He was stuffed into a little box, it was dark, and he was _trapped_...

"... And then I had this other one," the woman continued, "Where I was in this field, and there was this picnic rug, and there was a gust of wind, and all my clothes got blown off, and suddenly there was Brad Pitt standing under a tree, and the wind tore all his clothes off too..."

"Er, dreams are just, you know, not your fault," Sam tried valiantly once more to interrupt the monologue of someone who either wrote Mills & Boon stories in her spare time, or ate far too much cheese before bedtime.

"...And the one after that, I was at the beach, and I was in the water, and there was this big wave that washed my bathing suit off, then suddenly there was Johnny Depp, on a surfboard, and the wave tore his bathing suit off too..."

"It's just like your brain doing an information dump after hours, so it doesn't count as sin," squeaked Sam.

"Oh, but Father, the one after that, I was walking through a field of sunflowers, and there was a swarm of ladybugs, and they nibbled my clothes off, then suddenly Ashton Kucher parachuted in and the ladybugs tore all his clothes off too..."

"Oh, God, you have to stop!" Sam wailed.

"I know," she agreed in a trembling voice, "But I just get these impure thoughts all the time! I don't know what to do! I even had one just before, when I saw you come into the chapel. There was a group of little cherubs, they were giggling and laughing, and they tore your cassock off..."

Sam rallied magnificently. "Okay, I'm noticing a theme here," he tried to sound stern, "With tearing. So, I want you to do some tearing of your own. Now, are you sorry for your sins?"

"Oh, yes, Father," the voice said earnestly, "Especially the one where I was on a pirate ship, and a cannon went off, and it blew all my clothes off, and then Jensen Ackles swung down on a rope and the cannon blast tore all his clothes off too..."

"Okay, that's good," Sam cut her off, let her go through the Act of Contrition, then recited the Absolution. "So, your penance is to say ten Our Fathers, pray the rosary, then go home and tear every single page out of your copy of _Fifty Shades Of Grey_ and set fire to it then flush the ashes down the toilet."

There was a little gasp from the other side of the screen. "How did you know I have that book?" the voice queried.

"Priestly intuition," Sam humphed. "Now, go, and sin no more."

He heard the other side of the confessional open, and let out a breath he hadn't realised that he was holding. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes, but it had seemed like hours. The wish for Dean to come and save him receded just a little.

The door on the other side opened, then shut. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," whispered a low voice. "It has been a week since my last confession."

Sam cleared this throat. "Very well, tell me your sins."

"Father," the voice sounded hesitant, "I have been... writing lewd material."

"Lewd material?" Sam repeated.

"Yes, Father," the voice confirmed reluctantly. "Romantic love stories."

Sam went 'hmmmmm' juciciously. "Well, that's, that's possibly causing an occasion of sin for yourself, or somebody else."

"The characters I write about are a married couple, very much in love," she qualified.

"Oh, okay," Sam replied. "It may not necessarily be a problem, then. And if you're writing them for a Romance publisher as your job, well, everybody has to earn money to live on..."

"Oh, there's no money involved, Father," the voice assured him, "I do it just for fun, then post them on the internet."

"The internet? Oh, well," Sam tried to sound authoritative, "Some people would say that it is the work of Satan. So, how often do you write this, uh, lewd material?"

"Oh, I try to write a story every week," the voice sounded more enthusiastic, "Have you heard of 'fanfiction', Father?"

"Unfortunately, yes," groaned Sam, "And it is definitely the work of Satan, so before you go any further..."

"Well, I'm afraid I'm a fan of the 'Supernatural' books," she confided, "But I know it's only fiction, and none of it is true. The characters, though, oh, they're just wonderful!" There was the sound of paper shuffling. "I write in what I call my HappyEverAfter verse. Let me read you something from my latest story, it's called _Grip Me Tight_. Dean and Castiel are on their honeymoon... there's a really funny bit, where they go to the beach, and there's this big wave that tears their swimming shorts off..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Running a convent is much the same as running any other large business, except the personnel all wear dresses whether male or female and pray more often (although a certain amount of prayer may accompany a downsizing or a particularly bad quarterly report ant any corporation). Mother Superior Louise, like any senior executive, constantly juggled multiple roles, had to deal with an enormous amount of administration, and was a combination of Chief Whip, Den Mother, overseer and miracle worker to keep the whole thing running. So it wasn't completely surprising that, when a nun approached her to inform her of yet another sister becoming unwell with the current 'flu bout, she lost track of the time.

When she did glance at her watch, she let out a little gasp – it was ten minutes past the end of Father O'Brien's Human Development class, and she had promised to rescue Father Angus! She set off, not at a run, of course, but she set a pace that, when she had been a postulant, would have seen her pulled up for a Walk With Precipitation.

The silence in the corridor as she approached the classroom made her think that the boys must have left already – she quickened her pace, anxious to make sure that Father Angus had not been completely overwhelmed.

As she approached the door, she looked through the glass insert, and stopped.

She could not hear what Father Angus was saying, but the boys all sat silently in rapt attention with their eyes fixed on him. As she watched, a boy raised his hand, then quickly realised his mistake, and just called out a question. Many were carefully taking notes.

She knocked, and opened the door.

"I beg your pardon, Father Angus," her voice sounded loud in the silence, "But convent business detained me." She looked around uncertainly. "Class time ended ten minutes ago, boys," she told them, "You may be dismissed."

A wave of disappointed noises ran around the room. "Can we have a little bit longer, Reverend Mother?" begged one boy, a member of the football team whom she had personally indentified as Most Likely To Need Bailing Out Before He Graduated. "Please?"

"Please, Reverend Mother," asked another whom she had privately nicknamed The Bomb Hoax, because of his ability to disrupt a class. "This is very interesting."

"Please?" "Please?" "Just ten more minutes?" "_Please_, Reverend Mother?" the class pleaded.

She blinked in astonishment. "Well," she said finally, "You seem to have... piqued their interest, Father Angus."

"I do hope so," he said solemnly. "Monogamy – a happy relationship with one person – is a very important concept, and we have had a lot to talk about." General murmurs of agreement came from the class.

"Oh. Oh. Well, in that case," she smiled, "Please do continue."

"I can find my own way back, thank you, Reverend Mother," Father Angus assured her, "Or I'm sure that one of the students can help me."

"Will you be back again next week, Father Angus?" asked one boy hopefully.

"Sorry, guys," the priest grinned, "I got work to do. I'm just visiting."

Sounds of disappointment ensued.

"In that case, I suggest you take advantage of Father Angus's presence, whilst he is here," Mother Superior smiled at them all, then withdrew.

On the way back to her office, she laughed to herself. It wasn't often that a priest managed to engage with such a demographic, but every so often, one would manage it, and to see him instructing, no, _inspiring_ young men, was a wonderful thing. They were the moments that made her feel the depth and fulfilment of her vocation.

She offered up a small prayer of thanks for sending Father Angus just when he was most needed, and a hint to the Almighty that if He ever felt inclined to send a stand-in priest again, another one like Father Angus would be most welcome.

* * *

Reviews are the Unexpected Winchesters In Dog Collars Substituting For The Unwell People Of Life!*

*By 'dog collars', I mean dressed as priests. Not wearing ACTUAL collars, like leather dog collars. That's just... don't go there. This site doesn't do MA.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Sam (looking around): **Is this a ship? _From a nearby yardarm, a flag dangles. It's black, with a cordless mouse and crossed keyboards under it, picked out in white._ That's the weirdest Jolly Roger I've ever seen. _A noise from above him. He looks up._

**Dean (clinging to a rope): **Aaaaaaaaaargh!

_He swings back and forth a few times, then falls, landing hard._

**Dean:** Ow. _He gets up._

**Sam: **Dean, why are you dressed like a pirate?

**Dean: **No idea, I just… Sam, is that, are you wearing a dog collar? An actual, leather, dog collar?

**Sam (grabbing at his neck):** Eeeeeeeep!

**Dean (inspecting the collar):** Dude you've got studs. Oh, and a little tag with your name on it.

**Sam (peering over the gunwales):** Apparently we are aboard a vessel called the _JIMIVERSE_.

**Dean:** I think this anchor might be made of chocolate.

_A flight of giggling cherubs descends, and a cannon fires…_

**Sam:** AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

**Dean:** At least you've still got the collar, bro.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

When it became clear that none of the boxes held anything that was of interest, Sister Felicity swore quietly to herself, then went in search of Sam to let him know. When one of the other nuns informed her that Dean had been dragooned into taking a high school Human Development class, she swore a lot more loudly, and broke into a run.

She barely paused to knock on the door of the Winchesters' room. "Dean!" she called, "Sister Maria just told me that Mother Superior threw you to the wolves, do you need alcohol, I'm betting that father O'Brien has some stashed…" She stopped, and blinked.

Dean sat on his bed, apparently deep in thought. The expression on his face was not the look of frazzled, overwhelmed surrender that was often to be found on the faces of priests who were called upon to try to instruct teenage boys in the Church's position on That Sort Of Thing. If anything, it was remarkably similar to the expression she had seen on the face of one of her fellow postulants the morning that a poached egg had come out of the possessed microwave with the yolk in the shape of the Virgin Mary.

"Mother Superior asked me to stand in for Father O'Brien," he told her distantly. "There was a classroom full of young guys, and… and… I've never experienced anything like it."

"Dean?" she pressed carefully, sitting next to him, "Are you all right? What did they do?"

"They… listened," he replied, in a tone of amazement. "They listened to me. It was like they actually cared about what I had to say to them. They paid attention, they asked questions, they wanted to listen. They wanted me to teach them."

"They did?" she prompted dubiously.

"Yeah," he seemed surprised. "They asked me to stay back. They asked me to come back next week. It was… amazing." He turned an earnest face to her. "I've never been in a situation like that before. I thought I was just gonna talk for a while, you know, just part of the act, just keep them quiet until Mother Superior came back but… " he waved a hand vaguely. "I started… teaching them. And they responded. I wasn't expecting to feel so… appreciated. I didn't think it would be so rewarding."

"Uh-huh," she nodded knowingly, "And I'm guessing that what you lectured in wasn't anything that would usually be found in a catechism curriculum. Suggestions for… after class practical lessons, perhaps?"

"It was a bit frightening," he admitted, "To think that I had been entrusted with these boys, ready to become young men, and, and, I had been given this opportunity to pass on what I know to them." His voice held wonder, and concern. "And I've been sitting here, thinking, did I do enough? Did I leave out anything really important? Could I have done more? I mean, this is important, and I could see that they understood that." He appeared wracked by uncertainty. "Did I do the best I could possibly have done for them? And I've realized that, as the Living Sex God, with great talent comes responsibility, to guys everywhere, and chicks too, to pass on what I know. It's not just enough to try to educate Sam. If I can, I have to help other people. I have to make a contribution to the overall sum of human happiness."

"Ding ding! Next stop Damascus," she snorted, You sound like you're having some sort of epiphany."

"It's just… they looked at me with… respect. And… they really took it all in. And…" he smiled a beautiful smile, "I think, I think they're going to go out there, and do me proud, and do themselves proud, and I'm just, I'm just, I'm just so… happy that maybe I had a hand in helping them with that, and maybe I had a hand in moulding these young men, and maybe the next generation of Living Sex Gods will occasionally think back to blind Father Angus, and remember his tuition fondly, and…" He beamed. "I feel like I've done something really worthwhile today."

"Careful there, Deano," Sister Felicity warned him, "You talk like that much more, you might end up with an angel appearing in your shower and telling you, hey, you got a vocation, pal, let's go get you measured up for your own man-dress."

"I feel humbled to have had the privilege of instructing them," Dean sighed.

Sister Felicity looked at her watch. "With the people here dropping like flies, Mother Superior came and stole Sam, too, and dragged him off to hear confession. I thought he'd be back here by now."

"I haven't seen him," Dean replied. "He's probably just handing out a few last penances – listen to ten emo songs, and eat all your salad for a week."

As he speculated about the sort of penances Father Sam might hand out, his cell rang. He took it out, and smirked. "Speak of the giant girly emo, and he shall call," he grinned, flicking the phone to speaker. "Hey, Sammy, how's it going? Telling people to say their prayers? Our Hairdresser, who art in the salon, hallowed by thy mane..."

"Dean," Sam replied, in a small voice that sounded all of five years old, "Dean… help…"

"Hang on Sam," Dean shot to his feet, "I'm coming, where are you?"

"Make them stop," Sam's voice was barely a frightened whisper, "Make them stop… "

"Sammy, listen to me," Dean coaxed, "Where are you, little brother?"

There was a distressed keening noise and the call cut.

"Sonofabitch!" snapped Dean, running a hand through his hair. "Come on, Jimi can find him…"

"No need," Sister Felicity was headed for the door, "I know where he is. Follow me."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Sister Felicity took them straight to the chapel; they didn't encounter anyone else. The chapel was empty. As they entered, a middle-aged woman left the confessional, and made her way out, smiling to them as she left. As soon as she was gone, Sister Felicity dashed to the other door, and pulled it open.

Sam was slumped inside, his face white. He had never liked small, confined spaces, and Dean recognized his expression; it was a mixture of fear, and relief that his big brother had come to save him.

"It's okay, bro, I gotcha," he soothed, getting an arm around Sam and hauling him out of the small space. "I gotcha."

"Dean," Sam breathed with relief, "It was… horrible…"

"It's okay now, I gotcha," Dean reiterated as Sister Felicity rummaged around behind the seat in the confessional.

"Get him back to your room," she instructed, "I'll be right behind you… Aha!" She triumphantly brandished a bottle of whiskey.

"That won't help," Dean snapped, as Sam slumped against him. "Right now, we need holy water, as much as you can get your hands on, and salt, and anything made of iron that's consecrated. If that asshole demon is back with reinforcements…"

"It wasn't demons," she told him grimly, draping Sam's other arm around her shoulder and helping Dean to steer him into a stumbling walk, "At least, not the sort you mean. Come on, I've dealt with this before."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

"Here you go, Sam, you drink this for me," Sister Felicity handed the glass to Sam. He downed it in a couple of gulps. "Better?"

"Yeah. No. I… " Sam stuttered. The nun poured him another double, and that went down without touching the sides too. "Gaaaah! Oh, that's good stuff." He held the glass out again, and she refilled it.

"I swear, bro," Dean growled, "Whatever did this to you, I will find it, and I will gank it…"

"I'm not going out there again," asserted Sam with a small hiccup. "Not if… they are out there."

"It's okay, Sam," Sister Felicity reassured him, "You can stay here, and you don't have to go anywhere. We'll just say you're feeling a bit unwell – they'll buy it, with the 'flu epidemic – and you can stay here and rest. And Dean and Jimi will stay with you, and nothing will get past them, right?" Sam smiled a little lopsidedly. "Right. Now, drink up… good boy."

When about half the bottle was gone, Dean wrangled his ginormous baby brother under the covers, then Jimi jumped onto the bed, and settled himself watchfully at the end of it.

"You good, bro?" asked Dean.

"I'm awesome," nodded Sam. "And thirsty," he waved his glass uncertainly. Sister Felicity poured him a drink; he looked at her, then took the bottle from her and necked it. "God, it was awful. They wouldn't stop…"

"It's okay now, Sam," Dean promised him, "Whatever it was…"

"Sunflowers!" Sam yelped. "Sunflowers! Parachutes!"

"Sunflowers?" Dean asked, confused. "You were attacked by parachuting sunflowers?"

"And pirates!" Sam added, his voice cracking. "Swinging on ropes! Wheeeeee!"

"Pirates? What, they were dressed as pirates?" His face clouded with bemusement. "I've never heard of a fugly that dresses like a pirate before; surely we're too far inland for an unquiet spirit. I'd better call Bobby…"

"Undressed pirates!" Sam corrected. "With cannons!"

"Sam," Dean began, "Whatever happened…"

"Honeymoon suite!" Sam giggled. "Bubble bath! Mirrored ceilings!" His voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "Chocolate… sauce…"

"Oh, God, Sam…"

Sam clutched desperately at Dean's arm. "Watch out for the waves!" he begged, "Don't let the waves get you…"

"I think that might be enough now, bro," Dean reached for the bottle.

Sam snatched it away. "Nooooo!" he yowled. "Featheeeeeeeeeers!"

"Maybe just a little bit more, huh?" Sister Felicity suggested. Sam glared at her suspiciously, and took another drink. He grabbed Dean's arm.

"If she shows any sign of corsetry," he whispered urgently, "Tell her I said she had to say forty-three Hail Marys, set fire to her computer, and feed all her Black Lace books to the giraffe." With that, he carefully handed the bottle to Dean, smiled reassuringly, and toppled slowly but inevitably backwards, like a magnificently shaggy if somewhat inebriated sequoia being felled.

"Okaaaay," Dean handed the bottle to the nun, and pulled the blanket over Sam.

"You're safe," Sister Felicity said, taking a swig herself then handing the bottle back, "I don't do corset. Foundation garment is bad enough. What is it with fitters, that they're always little old ladies with glasses on a lanyard, and you just know that they are somebody's Great-Aunt Eunice, or something…"

"What the hell happened to him?" Dean demanded, indicating his gently snoring brother.

"The matinee session," sighed Sister Felicity. "Damn it, I should've realized…"

"The matinee session?" Dean queried. "Are you telling me that some daytime movie did this to him?"

"No," she clarified, "The matinee session of confession. Sometimes it's referred to as the bored housewives session. I think some of them are just lonely, and they watch too many 'Desperate Housewives' and 'Sex and the City' reruns. I've seen this happen a couple of times – poor Father Tran was just out of the seminary; he ended up practically catatonic after a group of them got together and watched the Brazilian waxing episode…"

"Are you saying he's been traumatised by confessing housewives?" Dean sounded incredulous.

"He's not the first," she shrugged, and smiled at Sam sympathetically. "It was an older, no-nonsense Sister who took a couple of us aside, and told us that administration of copious amounts of alcohol was usually the best way to deal with it."

"Oh, fuck it," sighed Dean, falling heavily into a chair. "He's a lightweight at the best of times." He took a long drink from the bottle. "Oh, that is good stuff… if he ends up too hung over to drive tomorrow, he'll have to take over as blind guy…"

"Oh, it's okay, I'll drive," she said airily with a wave of her hand. "I promise not to hurt your beautiful car. Seriously. It's been a long time since I flipped that cruiser during a pursuit… joke! Joke!" She added hurriedly as Dean gave her an expression that went alarmingly close to infringing on the Sam Winchester Bitchface™ trademark.

"I have no problem whatsoever with the idea of hitting a nun," he grumbled, "If she does anything that might hurt my Baby."

"And I have no problem at all with the idea of knotting your arms behind your head if you try," she replied sweetly. "Age and treachery will defeat youth and skill, every time." She held out her hand. "Don't hog it."

"You sound like Bobby," he snarked, handing over the bottle, which she drained. "You drink like him, too."

"He sounds like an okay sort of guy," Sister Felicity opined, "If he's put up with you two for all this time, he's probably on the way to sainthood."

"Cow."

"Dick."

"So, nothing helpful in Sister Helen's indices," Dean said, and Sister Felicity nodded.

"Unfortunately, no," she concurred. "But I did get a name. There's a nun there who's retired now, in her eighties, and her health isn't that good, but Sister Helen says that her mind is still as sharp as a tack. She was working at St Claire's in Topeka when it was still operating as a home for unmarried mothers. She assisted with the transfer of some of the documentation we ploughed through already. It's a thin lead, but she's probably our best shot at this point. So, tomorrow, we take Sleeping Beauty here, and go introduce ourselves to Sister Agnes."

"Fine," grunted Dean. "Just don't ask me to wake him up. I'll get Jimi to kiss him."

* * *

Reviews are the Happy Doggy Wake-Up Kisses From Your Favourite Part-Hellhound In The Big Snuggly Bed Of Life!


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen**

Sam rallied the next day and was able to get behind the wheel, but when Metallica started blasting from the speakers, he slapped irritably at the stereo.

"Hey, I was listening to that!" complained Dean.

"I need something soothing this morning," Sam declared.

"Metallica can be soothing," Sister Felicity countered.

"Listen to the Bride of Christ, Sammy," instructed Dean piously, "She's a holy person, divinely inspired. You'll probably go to Hell for disobeying a nun."

"Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his – or her – cakehole," Sam actually smirked. "It's Dean's rule. Pick something else."

"Okay, okay," the nun grumbled, fiddling with the stereo. Eventually, the strains of an orchestra filled the car. "Oh, it's _The Magic Flute_!" chirped Sister Felicity. "Can we listen to this?"

"Sure," smiled Sam.

"What?" squawked Dean. "What? What happened to Metallica being soothing?"

"It is," Sister Felicity turned and grinned at him, "But this – it's heavy metal for grown-ups."

A bit later, one of Mozart's most famous arias began.

"Oh, I love this bit!" Sister Felicity beamed. " 'Hell's vengeance boils in my heart! Death and despair flame about me!' She's a wonderful villain, isn't she?" She began to sing. "_Fühlt nicht durch dich Sarastro Todesschmerzen, So bist du meine Tochter nimmermehr…_"

She launched into the first coloratura passage with much gusto, if not terribly much accuracy of pitch.

"Holy crap!" yelped Sam. He looked apologetically at her. "Um, sorry," he went on, "It's just that..." he fished for a tactful way to say what he was thinking, but admitted defeat in the face of her brutal assault on the helpless notes cowering above the staff. "Uh, look, to be frank, has anybody ever pointed out to you that you can't sing?"

"Murder on the high Cs?" suggested Dean solicitously.

"Oh, repeatedly," Sister Felicity smiled, "I was actually excused from the choir in my first week as a postulant. But I don't let that stop me! I like to think that what I lack in ability, I make up in enthusiasm!"

"Does the name Florence Foster Jenkins mean anything to you?" Sam asked sourly.

"She's my inspiration!" Sister Felicity grinned unrepentantly. "Go ahead and tell me I can't sing, but nobody will ever be able to say I didn't sing!" She resumed her recital.

"Oh, God," Sam moaned, "You're as bad as Dean! No, I think you're worse!"

"I recognise this bit," Dean added sunnily, "I think it was in a commercial for a car, or something..." he joined in with some enthusiastic falsetto la-la-la-ing, then Jimi whuffed in excitement and howled along.

"Aaaaaaaaaargh! Stop it! All of you!"

"_Verstossen sei auf ewig!_"

"Laaaaaaa-laaaaaaaa-la-laaaaaaaa-la!"

"Awroooooooooooo!"

"Jerk! And you, you, you… harpy!"

"Sissy."

"Bitch."

"Rowf!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

By the time they made it to St. Claire's in Topeka, Sam was complaining that his headache was in fact getting worse, and his hearing was permanently damaged.

"I hate you all so much," he muttered as Sister Porteress came out to greet them.

"Don't bust our bubble, Sammy," Dean grinned, "It's gotta be better than swapping stories about Chicks I Have Banged Or Heard About Being Banged, right?"

"I'm taking the fifth on that one," Sam grumbled.

After a lunch at which Jimi once more managed to charm an older nun, and Dean offered to marry her in order to have her pie-making expertise all to himself, another Sister showed them to a large, sunny lounge where two elderly women sat on comfortable sofas.

"Sister Agnes?" the younger nun called. "Sister Agnes, this is Father Angus, and Jimi, Father Malcolm, and Sister Felicity. She would like to speak to you, if you are feeling up to it."

"Of course," the elderly nun shook hands with Dean and Sam (and Jimi), eyeing them shrewdly, then turned to the other nun. "Would you be Sister Felicity Morgan?"

"Yes, that's me," Sister Felicity confirmed, a little nervously. "But it's the whole surname thing I'd like to talk to you about."

"Sit down, my dear," she patted the sofa beside her, and put aside her knitting. "Sister Glenda spoke to me of your letter, and your search." She grinned a little cheekily. "I do hope you didn't catch nun when you were born here," she said, and Sister Felicity laughed a little, "I'd hate to think that it was some sort of infection you picked up."

"I'm pretty sure that nun isn't contagious," Felicity reasoned, "Or there would be a lot more of us than there are. The thing is," she went on, "Sister Glenda said that there was nothing in the records. A lot of stuff has been... lost."

"Lost," sighed Sister Agnes, her bright eyes peering keenly at Felicity's face. "Yes, lost. Although the word 'lost' usually indicates a lack of intention to have something going missing." Her kindly, lined face became a little sad. "They were very different times," she said gently. "It was thought that it was best for the child, and the mother too, if there was a clean, complete break between them. I suspect that in many institutions such as ours, records were not assiduously archived, and if they went missing, nobody made much effort to go looking for them." She looked around. "This place was extensively refurbished, some twenty years ago," she told them. "A lot of old paperwork deemed... unwanted, and was disposed of."

"Sister Helen's at St Basil's has a room half full of boxes of paper from St Claire's," Sam pointed out. "She said that you had a hand in sending it there."

"So I did," the elderly face went hard defiance. "Ha! And I spent a week on my knees for it years ago. But it was safe. As soon as Sister Helen had hold of it, it was all safe. She takes her archiving very seriously. She defends her documents like a she-wolf watching her pups." Her smile held an element of calculation, and she glared at Sam and Dean. "Nobody will be able to get hold of any of it without getting past her."

"Unfortunately, the documentation there was too late to cover anything relating to me," Sister Felicity said, "I was born here in 1974. I know it's a long time ago, more than thirty years, closer to forty now, but..." her eyes became pleading. "Sister Agnes, do you remember anything?"

"I remember too much," the old nun told her, patting her hand sorrowfully. "I know it was supposed to be for the best, but, oh, I never encountered one who didn't love the little person she gave birth to. Some of them fought like tigers, but... what could they do?"

"I don't even know my mother's name," Felicity said, "But, do you remember any babies called Felicity? One that could have been me?"

"That wouldn't have been your name," Sister Agnes reminded her gently. "Any babies who were named by their mothers, their adoptive parents gave them a new one."

Felicity's face was desolate. "So, I'm back at square one," she said flatly. Sam put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, my dear," Sister Agnes's face was full of compassion; then a flash of that calculating look flickered over it, so fast that only a Hunter, or maybe an ex-cop, would notice it. "I am so sorry to have distressed you, Sister," she went on. "There is a beautiful little garden where I like to go to pray, sometimes, when I am upset about something. It's so peaceful, and I always manage to find a measure of solace there. I would so like to share it with you." She picked up a walking stick. "Please excuse us, Fathers," she said politely, "I wish to pray privately with Sister Felicity. As a penance, for the hurt I caused her with my part in this..."

Sister Felicity smiled understandingly. "It's okay," she reassured Sister Agnes, "They're with me. As in, they're helping me to look for any information about my birth family."

"We're priests, and we're here to help," Dean grinned.

"I'm a priest, I'm here to help," the old nun shook her head in amusement. "If I had a dime for every time I've heard that..." she paused, and appeared to make a decision. She turned stiffly, and addressed the other elderly nun. "Sister Lucia? Sister Lucia! Would you like another cup of tea, Sister Lucia?"

The only answer she got was a gentle snore.

"She spends most of her time asleep these days, dear old thing," Sister Agnes chuckled, "She's in her nineties. She was the first to adopt the new habit after Vatican II. You wouldn't know it now, but she was a true progressive. Help me up, sister."

Sister Felicity took Sister Agnes' arm, and helped her to her feet. "So then, walk with me. You come along too, Fathers," she added, in a tone that indicated she believed that allowing them to tag along was an act of unparalleled charity, "Perhaps I'll need your help after all."

"Oh, do you need us to get you a wheelchair, Sister?" asked Sam.

"Not that sort of help," snapped Sister Agnes, "But when we get where we're going, I may need a priest so I can confess forty years of disobedience."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The elderly nun took them on a long walk around the convent building. Their route seemed to ramble, with no pattern or actual destination, but it was apparently calculated to encounter as few other people as possible. She indicated points of interest as they went, a small chapel, a venerated relic, a part of the original building that was conserved.

"If you don't mind heights, you get a most astonishing view from the roof gallery," she informed them, "That part of the building wasn't touched, what with it being on the historic register, and the money not being infinite. Let's go and see, it's been a while since I've been up there, it's safe enough if you watch where you put your feet."

The final flights of stairs were slow going, with Sister Agnes leaning on her stick and the bannisters, but finally they arrived at a small, dusty set of rooms that were filled with the sort of things that end up shoved into attics and forgotten, simply because carting them all the way back down to ground level to dispose of them would be too much effort. The windows were caked with grime, and the smell of dry rot and mouldering furnishings hung in the air.

"I need you to shift those desks," instructed Sister Agnes.

"Oh, er, he's, uh," began Sam.

"He's perfectly capable of helping you," snapped the old nun, "He's no more blind than he is an actual priest. Oh, the body might be failing," she snorted in amusement at the Winchesters' shock, "But there's nothing wrong with the grey matter." She tapped the side of her head. "And that's the biggest 'guide dog' I've ever seen." She turned to Sister Felicity. "I don't know why you're here with a couple of Hunters – oh, aren't they just adorable when they gawp like that, they're like a couple of confused goldfish – but I'm assuming that it's important. Especially if they thought it was necessary to find a way to bring their dog." She cocked her head and studied Jimi. "One of my brothers Hunted, with a Wildhunt dog, but they're German Shepherds. Is this one a Schwartzhund pup?"

"He's from... a different bloodline," Dean replied, taking off his glasses. "He's half-Hellhound."

"Huh. Well, you learn something every day," mused Sister Agnes. "Don't just stand there, you youngsters shift those desks."

Dean, Sam and Felicity did as they were bid, coughing and sneezing as the dust was stirred up. They made enough space to get between the broken furniture and the wall, where a table stacked with crumbling books under a tarpaulin was jammed against the panelling. "Just pull it out," the old nun said, "Now, you're looking for a board above the panelling, with a word carved into the wood. It's only small, so you'll have to look closely..."

"There's one here," Sam peered hard at the block letters cut into the grain. "_Spes_. Latin for 'hope'."

"That's the one," nodded Sister Angnes. "The panel underneath it, pull that out. It should be loose."

It was stuck, presumably with the dust and grime of years, but eventually Sam and Dean managed to work it loose.

"So, what are we looking for?" Dean asked, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom behind the panel, "I wish I'd brought a flashlight... holy crap."

Behind the panelling was a small crawl space. It was packed with boxes. The smell of old, dry paper wafted out.

"You'll have to pull quite a bit out to get to 1974," Sister Agnes informed them regretfully, "There's another ten years shoved in on top of it."

"I'll go, I'm smallest," Sister Felicity said, carefully clambering through the panelling.

"What the hell is this?" asked Dean, mystified, as Felicity passed delicate old boxes out.

"Looks like somebody was doing some archiving of her own," suggested Sam with a smile.

"Mea maxima culpa," Sister Agnes grinned unashamedly. "When the refurbishment was being planned, I suspected that a lot of these records would be classified as 'redundant', and be thrown out. I sent what I could get away with to Sister Helen, but then I was given a direct order not to remove any more documents from the premises. So," she said slyly. "I didn't. Sister Lucia helped me; in fact. We stashed away as much as we could without getting caught."

"1974," called Sister Felicity, handing out a box with the date on the side in fading ink. "There's several of them."

"But... why?" asked Dean. "Why did you do this?"

Sister Agnes smiled sadly. "I was a novice at much the same age as Sister Felicity," she recounted, "And before that, I embraced the late fifties, and then the sixties. It was an exciting time: music, political activism, women's rights, and, of course, free love." She grinned in a way he wouldn't have expected from a nun. "We were the generation that invented sex, you know," she told him archly, cocking an eyebrow.

"Thank you!" chirped Dean brightly. "Oh, damn it, I'll have to re-set my watch again..."

"And then, the thing about free love, I discovered, was that it wasn't entirely free, after all."

"You had a baby," Sam guessed. "You were an unmarried mother."

"Daniel," Sister Agnes's eyes shone with recollection. "I knew that his adopting family would call him what they wanted, but I named him Daniel. And he was the most beautiful, most perfect, most wonderful thing I'd ever done. Ever have done." She wiped her eyes. "My family were horrified, of course, and hid me away in a 'refuge' for unwed mothers..."

"Another convent," Sam nodded.

"And they took my little boy away, and told me it was best for him, as well as me," she went on. "They told me to go, and forget about him. And I tried, but... how could I? He was my son! I looked for him later, but, well, I think Sister Felicity will tell you how that usually ends. Anyway, ten years later, I found my vocation. And when I was assigned to St Claire's, I knew why I'd been sent." She lifted her chin defiantly. "If there was anything I could do, anything, to increase somebody else's chances of finding their child, or their birth family, I'd do it. If it meant flouting Church policy, so be it. And so..." she waved a hand at the hole in the wall. "I salvaged what I could."

"This is the last one marked 1974," Sister Felicity emerged with a final box. "So, which one is November?"

The began to scour the boxes, trying to work in some sort of chronological order.

"I got a Morgan!" Sam announced triumphantly. "Yeah, I got a Morgan! A letter from... Frank and Kathleen Morgan!"

"Show me!" Sister Felicity snatched the letter from his hand. "This is our address, when I was a kid," she told them, "The house where I grew up."

"An application to adopt could arrive months before the birth of a particular baby," Sister Agnes informed them, "Your records may be much later."

They continued to burrow through the boxes. "Another Morgan," announced Felicity, reading quickly. "To F. & K. Morgan. From Mother Superior Joseph..."

"She became boss penguin just after I was first professed," Sister Agnes mused.

"... 'Dear Frank and Kathleen, I am delighted to inform you'..." Sister Felicity dropped the letter, and rummaged through the rest of the box. "Come on, come on," she muttered to herself. "Gah! This box ends mid-November!"

They nearly missed it; the file itself had been folded back, as if it had been stuffed into the box by someone more intent on filing it quickly than filing it correctly. But it contained a copy of the birth certificate of Felicity Kay Morgan, with her father listed as Frank Matthew Morgan, and her mother as Kathleen Bridget Morgan...

"This is it," she breathed, looking at the document in her shaking hand, "I recognise my birth certificate..."

The piece of paper behind it was smaller, duller, not on the official stationery in magnificent copperplate script, but written in haste, as if the details were not important.

"Female," she read, her voice shaking, "Born 19th November, 1974..." she kept reading silently. Then she smiled, and a tear slid down her face. "Deanna," she announced, "My mother named me. She gave me a name! She named me Deanna."

"Does it have her name?" prompted Dean.

"Yes," Sister Felicity let out a strangled sob of delight, "My mother. Mary. Her name was Mary. Mary Campbell. And it's even got my father's name, too!" She looked up, smiling brilliantly. "I'm Deanna, the daughter of Mary Campbell, and John Winchester."

* * *

A CD entitled _The Glory (? ? ? ?) Of The Human Voice _is one of my favourites. It's a compilation of Florence Foster Jenkins' greatest hits. If you are not acquainted with the astonishing 'talent' that was Flo Fo, I urge you to look her up; I believe that audio of her rendition of the Queen Of The Night's aria is on YouTube. She was the forerunner of so many would-be participants of shows like _America's Got No Talent, American Idle_ and _The Icks Factor_ that she should be officially recognised as their patron saint.

Reviews Make The Bunny Sing!*

*In tune.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

Okay, Petunia's been really talkative, so here's the deal: I'll put up another chapter, and you lot don't skimp on reviews just because you've got two more chapters to read instead of one. (Yeah, yeah, I'm an addict. I admit it. I'll sulk. It's pathetic, I kid you not.) So, do we have a deal? You don't even have to go to a crossroads, and I do NOT want your souls (I know where they've been, you depraved Denizens *shudder*)...

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

Dean and Sam stood looking at Sister Felicity with expressions of stunned disbelief.

Neither of them were strangers to expressions of stunned disbelief. When you lived your entire life as a Hunter, you had plenty of opportunity to work on your expression of stunned disbelief, although as you got older and saw more, they tended to become fewer and farther between. And when you were a Winchester, you were always going to have extra opportunities to work on your expression of stunned disbelief.

For example, the first time Sam had come back to their cruddy apartment from the library early and inadvertently walked in on fifteen-year-old Dean, and Melanie Coverdale, wearing nothing but eager smiles and so engaged that they didn't even notice him, he wore an expression of stunned disbelief. The time he was scanning one of the 'Supernatural' books for a small detail, and found out about Rhonda Hurley and the pink panties, he also wore an expression of stunned disbelief.

Further to that, the time that Dean had come home from an after-school job to another cruddy apartment and found their Dad helping Sam rehearse for a school drama class by reading the part of Juliet, complete with a dishcloth wimple, breathy falsetto voice and dramatic swooning, he had worn an expression of stunned disbelief. Likewise, when a seventeen-year-old Sam had asked him for a couple of condoms, and Dean had given him three with a complimentary eyebrow waggle, then Sam came home from a female friend's house complaining 'We needed more, and yours weren't big enough; it's okay, she stole some from her brother', he once more wore an expression of stunned disbelief. (He later found out that they were using them to set up an experiment measuring the expansion rate of various salt solutions with the variation of temperature, but that didn't stop him from ribbing Sam mercilessly.)

The first time Sam saw Dean in a dress, he wore an expression of stunned disbelief. (Actually, the second time, he wore an expression of stunned disbelief, too.)

The first time Dean saw Sam with his hair in pigtails, he wore an expression of stunned disbelief. It was very closely followed by hysterical laughter, but the stunned disbelief came first.

Dean came back with his hair dyed green, and his eyebrows waxed.

Sam came back with a pair of fluffy bunny slippers glued to his feet and butterfly clasps in his hair.

Dean came back wearing a sarong, garlands of marigolds, and a henna tattoo that looked remarkably like some sort of fertility symbol.

Sam came back with rope marks, a confused look, his shirt missing and a phone number in lipstick disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.

Yep, the Winchester brothers were really good at expressions of stunned disbelief.

But the ones they had as they looked at Sister Fic were the most stunned and disbelieving that they'd ever worn.

"That's... that's..." stuttered Sam. "Can I have a look at that?" In a daze, he took the paper from her, and read it carefully. "The dates fit," he confirmed, "Mother's place and date of birth, father's place and date of birth, it all fits..."

"You gotta be kidding me," breathed Dean, staring at Sister Felicity.

She gave him a dubious look back. "You see something green?" she asked.

"Winchester," Sam said faintly. "The demon's memo. It wasn't a location."

"But... that's where I was," the nun sounded confused, "Where they were looking for me. What do you mean?"

"It means," Dean began, taking the piece of paper from Sam to confirm it with his own eyes, "It means... I don't believe this... " He looked up at her. "You're our sister, Fic."

"Yeah," she nodded, "That's me, Sister Fic Morgan." She cocked her head. "Is this some sort of post-traumatic stress thing brought on by high schoolers or bored confessing housewives?" She asked. "Father Tran was okay for about a day afterwards, then he had a second round attack of the vapours..."

"No, no, no," Sam shook his head, "You are our sister, Fic. You are our sister. Full stop. Fic. Another full stop. You're a Winchester. Our name is Winchester. John Winchester was our father, and Mary Campbell, she was our mother, and they got married when he came home, and, and, and..."

"I was born in 1979," Dean cut in. "And named for our maternal grandmother. Our mom wanted to name her eldest after her own mom, because her parents had died." Somehow, he found a grin. "Sounds like she did just that. Twice."

Felicity looked from one of them to the other. "Is this... this little Darth Vader moment your idea of a joke?" she asked incredulously. "It's about as funny as, as, something that's not funny at all!"

"No!" Sam almost yelped, "It's not a joke! If this is real..."

"It's real," Sister Agnes said softly but clearly, "It's definitely real. Those are the details of your birth parents."

"Then, you're... you're..." he ran out of words. "Felicity, you are our sister," he finished.

Sister Felicity shook her head. "This is impossible," she stated, "Nobody goes looking for their birth mother, and finds their family standing in the same room. It just doesn't happen..."

"Here." Sister Agnes was fishing around in the records box. She came up with a yellowing square or card. "I did this, for some of them," she explained, "Although if I'd been caught, I'd probably have been thrown out of the order altogether. But some of them, they were so desperate to have something, just a little fragment of memory, to know that their baby was real, it was a risk I was glad to take."

She handed over the piece of card. Sam took it. It was a fading polaroid picture of a young blonde woman, tired but smiling, with a small baby in a pink blanket.

Sam's mouth dropped open. "It's Mom," he whispered. "Dean, it's her. It's Mom. She looks younger, but it's definitely her."

Dean scrabbled for the small picture he kept in his wallet, and they put the two side by side.

Sister Felicity wore an expression of stunned disbelief.

"Jumping Jesus K. Reist on a fucking pogo stick," she eventually said, jaw hanging in bewilderment. "It's the same woman. It's..." she swallowed. "That's... my Mom?"

"Yeah," smiled Dean. "That's Mom. She was a babe."

"You look like her," Sam said distractedly.

"You think?" Felicity sniffled, gazing at the picture. "Dean's right, she is beautiful..."

"No, Dean," Sam corrected, staring from his big brother to his, well, his big sister... "I didn't notice it before, but... you two. You look like Felicity. You look alike. I'm not kidding, there is... it's a family resemblance."

"So... what now?" asked Dean, completely bewildered.

"Well," mused Felicity, her eyes welling, "Is it okay if I hug my... little brothers?"

Sam burst into tears and grabbed her in a happy octopus hug. "God, yes!" he told her. "Oh, God, we've got a sister, Dean!"

"Yeah," Dean smiled, and surreptitiously wiped his eyes, "A sister who's a Sister, no less, which is kind of weird, and maybe a bit creepy, but..."

"Shut up or I'll twist your arm again," Felicity growled at him, pulling him in, "Little brother."

"You're definitely mean enough to be a big sister," he sniffled. "Cow."

"Dean!"

"Shut up, bitch."

"Dick. Don't tease the sissy."

"Harpy."

"Please do me the favour of putting the boxes back when you're done here," smiled Sister Agnes, "I'm too old to be doing it now." With that, she left them, and slipped quietly out of the room, where she stiffly seated herself on the stairs, and sat sentinel.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They spent the afternoon sitting in the secluded little garden where Sister Agnes had offered to speak with Felicity.

"Wow," she said, handing over the bottle she'd found to Dean (Sam had pulled a face, and stuck to a cup of coffee). "Just... wow. So, how many times have you actually, er, died, then?"

"I've kind of lost count," Dean said sheepishly. "But more than him," he indicated Sam.

"So," she concentrated, "John – Dad – sold his soul for you, and then helped you kill the yellow-eyed demon, and later you sold your soul for Sam, and Castile..."

"Castiel," corrected Dean.

"Yeah, him, Castiel, Cas, raised you from Hell, then you killed a demon called Lilith, then you killed a demon called Ruby, then the Apocalyse started, and demons were trying to kill you, but angels were trying to kill you too because most of them are dicks with wings, but you jumped into Hell with Lucifer and dragged Michael along for the ride..."

"It was his own stupid fault," muttered Sam.

"... Then part of you got out, but your soul got left behind, and you screwed your way through every hooker from one coast to the other..."

"I don't remember that bit," Sam flushed, and scowled at Dean.

"...Then you found out about it when your angel Cas did a sort of soulectomy scan, then a demon called Crawly offered to get it back, but he couldn't..."

"Crowley," growled Dean, "Self-proclaimed King of Hell, and all around asshole."

"...Okay, then Death got you back, then Castiel ended up swallowing a whole bunch of souls from Purgatory, set himself up as the new god – really, that was him? I thought it was just one more religious loony – and then he had a really spectacular bout of diabolo-celestial gastroenteritis and blew up your surrogate father's house, and he's the guy who says 'Balls' a lot..."

"That's kind of it, in a nutshell," shrugged Sam. "Give or take the odd angel, demon or other fugly that gets in the way."

"Right," she nodded dubiously. "And your dog is half-Hellhound, and his sister lives with his mom and Mr Bobby Balls, and his other sister Hunts with a really cranky werewolf who is congenitally incapable of understanding football..."

"She's hopeless," asserted Dean. "Some sort of mental disability there, I think."

"We had a dog when I was a kid," Felicity told them. "He was a mutt from a shelter. Mom used call him a Hellhound when he farted..." she reached down and patted Jimi, who panted happily and butted under her hand. "You make my life sound positively mundane."

"Mundane has its good points," Sam opined. "Sometimes, mundane is a positive relief."

"I'm afraid that your life may now be a little more interesting than you'd really prefer, Fic," Dean warned her. "We're still faced with the question of why a demon is looking for you. That's what started this little road trip, remember? We may have mistaken the name Winchester for your location, rather than your name, but now we know who you are – by blood – it could mean trouble. If demons are looking for an unknown Winchester, they are not interested in throwing you a 'Welcome To Our Favourite Family!' party."

"What do you mean?" asked Felicity.

"We told you before, bloodlines are important," Sam elaborated. "We mattered because we were able to be human suits, vessels, for a couple of flying dicks who wanted to swing their handbags at each other over their Daddy issues. We have been jerked around by Heaven, Hell, and all sorts of assholes in between. But we've never even suspected that we had another full-blood sibling. You were never even mentioned, even when Michael stooped to using our half-brother Adam for his little spat."

"Could they be trying to re-start the Apocalypse?" Sister Fic wondered.

"I don't' think so," Dean grinned. "Last we saw of the two oldest flying dicks, one was working as a police dog, and the other was happily working as a lap warmer for a circus strong man..."

"It's a long story," Sam told her. "But they're... otherwise occupied. But we've thwarted, crossed and pissed off so many demons, it's impossible even to guess what they want you for, except to get at us somehow."

"Sounds like I'd better make sure I've got a jug of holy water on hand at all times," she observed drily.

"We've got an anti-possession charm you can have, too," Sam told her. "Although given that you're a Winchester, it might be sensible to have a tattoo done.

"A tattoo?" she repeated.

"Yeah," Dean told her, pulling down his shirt to display his, "Like this."

She peered at it. "Oh, okay," she shrugged, "But does it have to be there?"

"Well, not really," Sam replied, "But surely that's not a problem for a nun – I mean, you don't wear dresses that show décolletage or anything."

"Oh, I'm not worried about that," she gave them a smile, "It's just that if I'm going to get inked again, that spot's already taken. I suppose I could get it done on a shoulder blade..."

"You got ink already?" Dean gawped.

"Told you, I had a life before I got nunified," she reminded him.

"But..." Sam seemed to find the idea of a tattooed nun equally difficult to comprehend. "But... you're a nun!"

"Nah," she grinned as she stood up, "I'm just a novice. And I'm starving. Let's go get dinner."

* * *

Castiel's rehabilitation from Godstiel, as it happened in the Jimiverse, is the subject of the story 'The Man Who Spewed Too Much'. Michael and Lucifer's current whereabouts in the Jimiverse are explained in the story 'Pack Up Your Troubles'. It has angels. And dogs. And donkeys. And fairy floss. And even Sam-In-A-Box. And veal scallopini.

Reviews are the Unexpected Tattoos on the Nun Of Life!

No?

How about the Unexpected Winchester Hugs In The Attic Of Life?

...

You can't possibly want the pirates thing again...

Oh, please yourselves, you reprobates.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

I want revieeews! Waaaaah! Here, I'll swap you some for another chapter.

* * *

Oh, yeah, an AUTHOR'S CREDIT to Georgia, for her suggestion about the car...

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

"Oh, it smells just wonderful, Sister Peter," enthused Dean as the elderly nun put a piece of pie in front of him, "You are clearly an artist!"

"Oh, away with ye, Father!" she snorted with amusement in a strong Irish accent. "Tis me own gammer's recipe. A special combination of spices."

"I think there's crack in this," he declared after a mouthful, "Because I'm already addicted. I bet your middle name is Eve," he grinned at her. "You are a temptress in a habit!" The elderly nun actually giggled as she returned to the kitchen.

"Is he always like this?" asked Felicity in a bewildered tone.

"He's usually worse," replied Sam glumly, "At the moment, it's toned down to priest level. Usually, if it has two X chromosomes per cell, he'll flirt with it. I'm a bit worried about what will happen at his funeral – if there's a woman present, he'll sit up on his pyre, waggle his eyebrows and say something like, 'Hey, have you ever wondered if you'd like to try S&M, or necrophilia – or am I flogging a dead horse?'."

"It's not my fault that I was born with an excess of masculine charm and I ooze erotic fascination wherever I go," Dean shrugged carelessly. "It makes men want to punch me, and women want to sleep with me..." he let out a sigh, put down his fork briefly, and inconspicuously reset his watch.

"It's making me want to punch you," Sister Fic muttered.

"Well, you're obviously not a proper woman," Dean flapped a hand dismissively, "You're a penguin."

"Or maybe my dick is just bigger than yours," she noted off-handedly, making Dean choke on his mouthful of pie.

"That would explain a lot," he wheezed, "Because you are anti-hot. There's clearly something wrong with you."

"Excuse me?" Felicity cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Actually, it makes sense," Sam reasoned. "Dean noted that when he first met you, he felt absolutely no compulsion to flirt with you – you were in no way at all an occasion of sin. It's because you're family. It's pheromones."

"Pheromones?" Dean queried. "Like, she's a queen bee, and she's exuding a smell that says, 'Hey, I'm engaged to Jesus, stay the hell away from me or I'll sting you' kind of thing?"

"MHCs," Sam replied.

"Huh?" Dean stared at his brother. "Speak English, dude."

"Major Histocompatibility Complexes," Felicity elaborated. "It's to do with your immune system. It's generally not healthy to mate with somebody who is too immunologically, and therefore most likely genetically, similar to you – basically, you'll tend to get healthier, more robust offspring if you breed with somebody who's genetically unlike you. It's where cultural incest taboos come from. It's why most animals have an innate aversion to incest, except for a couple of species of lizard."

"And fan fiction writers," shuddered Sam. "God, they scare the crap out of me."

"I wonder who they'll pair Fic up with?" mused Dean, "Because Chuck will end up writing about her, now we've found her."

"This is Chuck, the Prophet?" asked Felicity, "Drinks too much, dressing gown, calls you up and complains bitterly whenever you entertain a lady friend too imaginatively?"

"That's him," Sam sighed gloomily. "His books are still being published online."

"Hence the online L.E.W.D. campaign to get him to write more, er, explicitly about you two," she recalled.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, "So, the awful reality is, as soon as they get hold of you, well, you're fair game."

"Surely not," she said reasonably, "I'm a nun. Well, I will be. If I make it through my novitiate."

"Huh, like that will stop them," grunted Sam. "They write about us doing angels, us doing demons, us doing angels AND demons, us doing each other..."

It was Felicity's turn to choke on a mouthful of pie.

"…Angels doing demons, pretty much any permutation or combination that can be made. You being a nun, that will only encourage them," he went on. "They have Bobby and Crowley as a pair, for fuck's sake."

"Bobby? Mr Balls?" Her eyes were wide with horror. "Does he KNOW about that?"

"No, and we intend to keep it that way," Sam said grimly. "If he ever, EVER, finds out that there are people writing about him and Crowley setting up house, he will devise a spell that will fry the internet across at least half the planet."

"Yeah, and where will I get my porn from then?" chirped Dean.

"Dean!" Sam hissed, "Your curse!"

"Yeah, yeah," sighed Dean, fishing out his watch, "I'm going to be chaste forever at this rate." He paused, and looked at his big sister. "I wonder who it will be," he mused.

"Who?" she asked.

"The first Fic-slash-somebody story," Dean explained. "The first Fic fic. I was just wondering who they'll pair you up with."

"Dean!" Sam glared with a double strength Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't_ Believe_ You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!)

"It's going to happen," Dean pointed out, "I was just wondering who it will be. Cas, do you think? Some sort of heavenly reward for being a good nun? Crowley maybe, corrupting a nun."

Felicity and Sam stared at him in horror.

"Pre-marital sex, maybe?" he suggested. "Can your financé take a vessel, and come down amongst humanity again to claim his latest Bride?"

"You watch your mouth, mister!" snapped Felicity in outrage, "You are NOT too big to put across my knee, _little_ brother!"

"Bobby's too old, Kevin is too young," he pondered, "Hmmmmm… I know!" he said brightly. "It'll be Fic – slash... Andrew!"

"_Huh?_" chorused his siblings.

"Totally!" beamed Dean. "You'd like him, he's a funny guy, he's cool."

"You are speculating about people writing stories about me having a fling with a _werewolf_?" his sister squawked with horror. "A pair-bonded _werewolf_?"

"Be grateful if it's Andrew, and not Ronnie," he warned her knowingly as Sam sprayed coffee over his plate. "There's a definite demographic for That Sort Of Thing..."

"Dean, I will not sit here and listen to you talk about me having sex with somebody else's... partner!" she burst out. "It's... it's... all kinds of wrong! And creepy! And from what you've told me, he'd never consider it anyway!"

"Oh, they'd come up with some justification, or just designate it AU," Dean clarified. "One way or the other, in fan fiction, you need to get laid, Fic."

"Great, just great," she growled, "A week ago, I was a novice, doing a placement in a rehab class, and now, I've found out that I'm a Winchester, with two Hunters for little brothers, one of whom probably needs a good smiting for blasphemy, there are demons after me for reasons unknown but assumed dishonourable, and there's a whole bunch of people out there who will be just raring to write me a sex life that would put Paris Hilton to shame. With a frigging werewolf." She sighed. "Fuck my life. So, is he cute?" she added.

"Gah!" yelped Sam, "Can we stop this line of conversation five minutes ago? It's totally disturbing!"

"Yeah, I gotta reset my watch," Dean agreed.

"We should be concentrating on working out why there's demonic interest in Fic," Sam stipulated, "If we can work out what they want, we have our best chance of derailing it."

"It might be best if we go to Bobby's for a while," Dean told her. "You've seen it for yourself; consecrated ground doesn't keep demons out. It barely slows them down. There isn't anywhere that you're safe."

"I can't just wander off visiting whenever I feel like it," Felicity reminded them, "I'm only supposed to have leave of absence to check for any information about my birth family here. I'm supposed to go back to St Clare's in Virginia as soon as I'm done."

"Tell your Mother Superior that you've got a lead on an old priest who used to attend here, and he was marvelled at because of his amazing memory, and Sister Agnes said you should go see him where he now lives in South Dakota," supplied Sam. "I think she'll back up your story if need be. Seriously, we need to work this out."

"We've got a time and a place for the last break-in," Dean said, "If I have a look at that map again, maybe I can figure out where and when the next one can be. We catch the demon, then we find out what the hell they're doing."

"How do you catch a demon?" she asked. "Just one, a lower level one you said, threw you guys around like hacky sacks."

"With a devil's trap," Sam replied, pulling a napkin towards himself and taking out a pen. It's probably not a bad idea if you learn to draw it."

"Then you throw lots of salt, holy water, and consecrated iron at it, and threaten to exorcise it," Dean told her. "You'd be amazed at what they're prepared to do to stay the hell out of Hell. Then, if the meatsuit is already dead, you kill it with a very particular kind of knife." From the folds of his cassock, he produced his demon-killing blade, and handed it over. Fic inspected it and tested its weight.

"Nice," she noted, "Good steel. Good balance." She shaved some hair from the back of her wrist. "Good edge." She handed it back to Dean. "Good boy!" she chirped, patting him on the head.

"Cow," he muttered with a smile, then went back to finishing his pie. "It's about a six hour trip – we should leave early tomorrow."

"Can I drive?" asked Felicity.

"No," replied Dean.

"Please? Please?" she wheedled. "Pleeeeeeease?"

"Nuh-uh," Dean shook his head, "I'm not having you drive my Baby like she's in an episode of Highway Pursuits Gone Bad."

"Yeah, right," snorted Sam, "Because you've never, ever driven like a leadfoot – you only drive her to church on Sundays..."

"You know, technically, since I'm your older sister," Felicity began slyly, "As the oldest, I should have inherited the car."

"Over my cold, dead, rotting body," answered Dean.

"Can I just kick you in the shin instead?" she asked brightly. "It would be less trouble. And less smelly."

"You can't have my car!" snapped Dean.

"You just said I could!" Felicity was just as adamant.

"No I didn't!" yapped Dean indignantly.

"Yes you did!" she insisted. "All we're doing now is haggling over how badly damaged you have to be before I get the keys."

"Oh, God," moaned Sam, "Stop it, you two! I'll drive! You, no complaining! And you, no singing!" He leaned down. "And you – no howling."

"Sissy."

"Harpy."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

"Dick."

"Cow."

"Rumph!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Once we're on the road, you'd better call Bobby," Sam smiled as he tapped at the laptop.

"Yeah," Dean couldn't help smiling too as he pored over the map and the list of places and times of the break-ins. He doodled a series of circles. "Wait 'til we tell him, we've found another Winchester! We got a nun in the family!" He shook his head. "I wish I could've seen Dad's face."

"She can handle a gun, and a knife, and she can throw you across a desk without breaking a sweat," Sam noted. "Plus, her Latin is damned good. He'd have been proud."

"We should tell her that," Dean mused, looking at the map. "Yeah, there's definitely more than one search party at work, here," making more marks on the map. "They're being damned careful about anyone picking up a pattern, too. But it's there."

"There was another one," Sam relayed, clicking a link, "Two days ago. Kentucky. And one yesterday, in Missouri." He read the details from the news sites, and frowned. "They're a lot closer together. Hey, there was one in Oklahoma this morning."

Dean drew points on the map, and stared, letting his mind take in the way they fit together. He drew a wide, sweeping arc on the map.

He stood up suddenly, knocking over his chair.

"Dean?" Sam leaped up too, as Jimi jumped down from his snooze on the bed.

"We gotta get to Fic," Dean said shortly, picking up his gun and his flask of holy water, abandoning all pretence of being blind Father Angus. "And head for Bobby's right away. They're headed here next."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sister Felicity Morgan – Or am I Deanna Winchester?, she mused – was deep in thought. It had been a hell of a revelation to find out who her birth mother – and father – had been, and on top of that, she had found out that she had blood kin, two little brothers, and they were Hunters, and the things they Hunted...

She had been a cop, and now she was a nun. A novice, she corrected herself. She had seen things that at the time she had dismissed because her rational mind had known that such things could not happen, such things did not exist, but...

It was a lot to take in.

And she really _really_ had no desire at all to read about herself having sex with a werewolf.

"How will you write this, Chuck?" she wondered out loud with a wry smile, "Do I pace the room oozing angst, do I sit quietly and try to absorb it all? Do I burst into a burlesque song and dance to mess with your head? There's an idea. How about, you don't reveal me to the crazed fan fiction writers, and I keep all my clothes on? Come on, it's a good offer... give me a sign, O Chuck, Prophet of the Winchester gospels!"

Nothing happened.

Then nothing happened some more.

"Figures," she grunted to herself in amusement, glancing up at the crucifix on the wall. "Doesn't throw us our any further than we can swim, huh?" she muttered. "It's just as well that You've given me plenty of time to adjust to this, pal, otherwise come our wedding day, I might just have thrown the ring back in Your face and left You with the bill for the reception..."

There was a knock on the door. She opened it to Sister Agnes.

"Sister Felicity?" the old nun smiled up at her. "I'm so sorry to bother you this late."

"Not at all, Sister Agnes," Felicity smiled back, "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, it's what I can do for you, my dear," Sister Agnes beamed. "It's Sister Lucia. She's having one of her lucid moments – they're getting further apart, I'm afraid – and she must've overhead us, when I thought she was napping." The older nun took her hand. "She remembers your mother, Mary!" she said excitedly. "She says she remembers your birth!"

"She does?" marvelled Felicity.

"Oh, screamed the place down, you did, apparently," laughed Sister Agnes gently, "And you were born with the most luxuriant hair! And your mother practically had a tug-of-war over you with her! Oh, do come, Sister," the old nun pleaded, "She is so happy for you, and wants to share her memories with you."

"That's very kind of her," smiled Sister Fic, "And of you, Sister Agnes. Where is she?"

"I'm right here, my dear," said a voice behind her. Felicity spun around.

"Sister Lucia?" she asked.

"Well, yes and no," replied the elderly nun, her eyes colouring black. "If I'm honest, mostly no."

Felicity was reaching for her flask of holy water when Sister Agnes' walking stick connected with the back of her head.

* * *

(Andrew is, of course, the pair-bonded and sometimes beleaguered partner of Ronnie, the Jimiverse's Crankiest Werewolf. We don't actually know if he's cute, because nobody's ever drawn him. We know that, when he's human, he has a ponytail, and he's about Dean's height, and he smiles a lot. I don't know why, but I get a strange mental picture of him looking a bit like Dave Mustaine. Go figure.)

Oh noes! Eebil demons are eebil! With a capital eeb!

Encourage the bunny! Reviews are the Stories Pairing You Up With The Character Of Your Choice On The Fanfic Site Of Life!*

*I want an afternoon spent with the document processing machinery in Hell's library. Or Rumsfeld's last litter of puppies.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

Seriously. I'm an addict. I acknowledge it. Here, have another one.

And can I just be clear, the mention of Fic fics was merely part of the story. I do NOT want anybody to write Fic/Andrew, Fic/Ronnie, Fic/Gabriel, Fic/Castiel, Fic/Crowley, Fic/Castiel and Crowley/, Fic/Jesus, and ESPECIALLY not Fic/Dean/Sam. Come on, she's a NUN. Or at least, she's a novice.

Don't forget, the Library of Hell had all the document processing equipment upgraded during Orgle's stint as Temporary Acting Monarch of Hell Temporarily. So there's bound to be a Bizhub 8000, with diabolical customisations to Senior Librarian Verael's exacting specifications... ooooOOOOooooh, I feel a Lampito/Bizhub coming on...

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

The Winchesters – well, two of them – arrived at Felicity's room to find the door open and their sister gone.

"Fic! Fic!" called Dean, while Sam searched around the bare room. Jimi put his nose down, followed a scent across the floor, and growled. Sam bent down to see what he'd found.

"Sulphur," he told Dean, "And what looks like a bit of blood. They've been here."

"And they've got Fic." Dean ran a hand down his face. "Fuck. How do we find an abducted nun?"

"We don't," Sam grinned mirthlessly, picking up Sister Felicity's small bag. "We look for our sister. Thankfully, we got a dog who can find either of us, so I'm guessing..."

Following his train of thought, Dean took the bag, and grinned back. "Hey, J-man!" he called the dog, "We need you to find Fic! Find Fic!" He shook the bag, and Jimi sniffed at it. "She's family, Jimi! Find Fic!"

The dog raised his muzzle to the air, and scented, his eyes glowing the red of a banked fire...

_Scenting... casting, casting... there! Traces. Blood. Sulphur. The smell of wrongness, the smell of evil... and the smell of his Pack. His Pack! Tracking! Tracking!_

With a sharp bark and his eyes flaring redly, Jimi set off at a brisk trot down the hallway with the Winchesters hot on his heels.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

When Felicity finally pushed herself upright to sit against the wall behind her, she gingerly pulled off her veil. "Ow."

A boot nudged her side none too gently. "Shut up," a voice told her. "I need to concentrate."

"Oh, sorry," she said automatically, carefully shaking her head to try to clear it. What the hell was going on? She remembered Sister Agnes coming to her room. And Sister Lucia was there. With black eyes.

Oh, fuck.

A quick check ascertained that her phone and her small flask of holy water were gone. She looked around; it was an office space, of sorts, in a large open area. There wasn't much light – the only illumination came from several thick wax candles placed on the floor. As her eyes adjusted she could see that desks and chairs and the detritus of a workplace had been pushed back to clear a large space. The carpet had been torn up, and there were intricate markings drawn on the concrete below. Two people were adding to the design, a young man and a young woman, both frowning in concentration.

Oh, fuckity fuck.

She'd seen what one demon could do, and realised that she had no chance against two. Inwardly, she groaned; at school, she had been told in a Drama class that her acting was almost as bad as her singing, but she'd have to chance it.

Oh, fuck fuck fuckity fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

"Um, excuse me," she began, trying for a mixture of frightened and tentative in tone.

"Didn't I just tell you to shut up?" snapped the woman.

"Sorry," said Felicity, cowering, "I was just wondering, where are Sisters Agnes and Lucia? They are two elderly nuns, and I was talking to them..."

"Oh, we ditched the damned nuns," the man snarled, "Once we had the information we needed. Erk, jumping in and out of old nuns. It's been awful."

"But you have to admit, it was the quickest way to get the info we needed," the young woman told him. "I told you it would be quicker than trying to find the right paperwork – one of those retired old fossils was bound to know where the records were, sooner or later." She turned a smile full of malice on Sister Felicity. "Who would've thought that she'd already have helped someone else to do the searching for us?" she trilled, "It's our lucky day! We'll get serious brownie points for this."

"True," he conceded, "It's just that old meatsuits are damned uncomfortable. Especially consecrated ones. Who'd have thought a demented old woman could shout so loudly? I still got a headache."

"Who'd have known that mine knew language like that?" huffed the woman. "Did you know, the vicious old bitch tried to exorcise me from the inside? That hurt like fuck."

"Dead is much better," asserted the man.

"A lot quieter, that's for sure," agreed the woman, tapping her head. "I'll never take a live meatsuit again."

"Um, excuse me," Sister Fic interrupted meekly, "But are you... demons?"

"No," drawled the man, "We're you Fairy Godmothers." He turned completely black eyes to her. "Come to give you a beautiful dress, and some glass slippers, put you in a pumpkin coach, and send you off to the Royal Ball."

"Oh." She let herself sag. "Demons. That's a shame. I suppose I'm as good as dead, then?"

"Fraid so," grinned the woman, "And it's going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me."

"And if I try to escape, you'll just catch me, and break every limb, presumably?" she went on.

"Then start on your fingers," confirmed the female demon cheerfully.

"I suppose I'd best stay put, then," sighed Felicity. "Um, what are you doing, exactly?"

"Fingerpainting," the man didn't look up.

"Not much," shrugged the woman, still drawing, "Just preparing to hang you like a dead pig and bleed your carcass dry."

"Really?" Fic sounded astonished. "Goodness me. Whatever for?"

"Because," the man let out an impatient huff and spoke very slowly. "We're deeeeemons. We're eeeeeevil. It's what we do."

"So, do you just go around gutting and bleeding nuns for the fun of it?" Felicity asked curiously.

"Look, this isn't the bit where the bad guys reveal their plan, and go bwahahaha," said the woman sourly, "So – shut – up."

"Sorry," Fic apologised. "It's just that, well, I really don't know anything about demons. Except that they can be occasions of sin. And you look nothing like the pictures in some of the historical manuscripts."

"Heh heh, occasions of sin," chuckled the male demon, "I like that."

"It's unfortunate that I'll never get to pass on anything I learn, what with being dead and bled out," she admitted, "But I guess at least I've had the satisfaction of learning something new today. Oh, am I in the way?" she drew her legs back as the intricate designs on the floor expanded. "I'll just go over there." She stood up carefully, and made her way towards a water cooler. "Oh, that's handy, I'd like a drink..."

"Don't touch that!" yelled the female demon, starting towards her.

"It's okay, I just want a drink," Felicity reassured her. "I won't try to bless it or anything. See?" She poured a cup, and drank it. "Oh, that's nice and cool." She poured and drank another one. "Seriously, if I even looked like I was thinking about blessing it, you'd come straight over here and break my arms, right?" The demon glared at her suspiciously as she downed another cup. "Look, I'm just trying to be realisitic here. I'm as good as dead. The better hydrated I am when I die, the quicker I'll bleed out, which will be a quicker death for me... how much of my blood do you need, anyway?"

"Lots," the demon hissed in annoyance. "All of it. Now, will you just SHUT UP!"

"Okay, okay, sorry," Felicity slid down the wall, had another drink, and used some water and her veil to dab at the back of her head. "Well, we've lost some right here," she muttered, "I'd better drink some more water."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The Impala made its way out of the convent of St Claire's, following Jimi as he trotted along the road, eyes glowing hotly red, head turning from side to side occasionally as if triangulating on some signal only he could hear.

"They can't have gone far," Dean reasoned, "That blood was really fresh."

"It depends on how they're travelling," Sam sounded as worried as he looked. "If they're travelling by DemonAir, they could be in Finland by now.

"No, they want her for something specific," Dean countered, "And Jimi is tracking. They're still here. They've been looking for her, now they've found her, and they have something in mind... but what?"

The trail led them to the edges of the nearby town, through the business district, to the outskirts of the built up area where the zoning was more industrial and the buildings larger and more sparse.

"They need space," Sam said, taking in the buildings they were passing, "Warehouses, open floors, they're planning some sort of working that needs space."

Jimi let out a sharp bark, and turned left, trotting towards a nondescript building. He sniffed along the wall, until he reached a side door. He growled, and his hellteeth bristled from his mouth.

"I think we might have arrived," noted Dean, testing the door and finding it locked. "Damn it."

He set to work on the lock as quietly as he could while Sam popped the trunk of the Impala.

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"There," the female demon stood back to admire the intricate scrollings, script and patterns on the floor. "All done! Get the candles set up."

"Wow," breathed Felicity, finishing her cup of water. "That looks... intricate. So," she asked brightly, "What happens now?"

"I just gotta set up a long distance call," the female demon smirked, "Then, we kill you!"

"Oh," Fic drooped slightly. "So, what do I do?"

The young man glared at her suspiciously. "You do understand you're going to die, don't you?" he demanded. "Horribly, and painfully?"

"Oh, yes, I understand, "Felicity nodded, "But... there's no point in trying to escape, is there? And you said before, you don't like yelling and screaming, so I don't want to make you angry. In case you start breaking limbs."

"Nobody's going to rescue you," he told her, "This place is locked, and warded."

"I'm guessing we're a long way from anywhere," nodded Sister Fic, "So I'd be wasting my breath with calling for help anyway."

"Right," he agreed. "You sure you understand?" he insisted, "You're awfully calm for somebody who's about to be sacrificed for a demonic spell."

"I think it's the nun thing," Felicity replied thoughtfully. "You know, when I die, I go to Heaven, where I will have my Eternal Reward, so I'm trying not to worry too much." She looked confused. "Would you like me to scream?" she asked politely.

"No, no, silent resignation is fine," he replied hastily, "I'm telling you, that old bitch really did give me a headache."

"Your host body could be dehydrated," she suggested, pouring herself another cup of water and drinking it. "Perhaps you could try drinking some water."

"This one's dead," he said abruptly.

"Suit yourself," she shrugged, pouring more water and downing it. "Maybe you should avoid nuns in future. You could have some sort of contact allergy."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"It's open!" Dean hissed angrily, turning the handle as hard as he dared, but the door didn't budge. "The lock is open!"

"Shit, it's warded as well," Sam growled, running his hands over the steel and taking in the small dark red marks that nobody would find unless they were looking. "Blood magic. Fuck, this is bad." He drew his knife, and made a shallow cut on his forearm. With his own blood, he began to scratch at the wards, trying to counter them. "If they want her for blood magic, it's really bad..."

* * *

Dun dun duuuuuuuun! Hurry Dean and Sam!

Review will make the Winchesters go faster! Trust me, I'm writing about a nun. Well, a novice.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

... another chapter, vicar?

You can blame the hold-up with this one on Leahelisabeth; I had to do a bit of a re-write to include some battered Winchesters.

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen**

The young male demon wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the Pit, he knew that, but he was starting to think that the nun they'd abducted made him look like a frigging genius. He'd expected to have to deal with screaming and flailing and weeping and wailing and fervent desperate praying. Instead, she had been unfailingly courteous and cooperative, and was taking a polite interest in proceedings, a bit like a member of Britain's Royal Family visiting a farm or something, and saying things like, "So, what do you do here, then? Cut pigs' balls off whilst they writhe and squeal? Well done!" She was being more Zen than Catholic about her situation, if you asked him.

Still, he wasn't about to complain. That vicious old bitch he'd possessed had truly been a lot stronger in mind than in body, and his headache was still there.

"So, I just loop this around your feet," the demon demonstrated the noose hanging from a rusting eyelet in the ceiling, "And we hang you upside down, then I get that basin over there," he indicated a large vessel off to one side, "And we cut your throat, and collect your blood."

"Won't it start to coagulate?" asked Sister Felicity anxiously.

"It doesn't seem to," shrugged the demon. "It could be the scribings on the basin, I guess."

"I may have to ask to borrow your belt," Sister Fic told him a little sheepishly. "For my skirts."

"Huh?" the demon gave her a bemused look.

"If you hang me upside down, my skirts are going to all fall down around my head," she pointed out. "That's pretty damned undignified. Plus, they'll get in the way. They'll be hanging down where my head is, and the blood will get all over them, and they'll soak it up... will you get into trouble if you don't get enough?"

The demon looked thoughtful. "Uh, yeah, he'll probably be really angry..."

"Don't talk to her!" the female demon rejoined them. "Just get ready to do it!"

"Look, I just don't want anybody getting into trouble because of me," she stated. "Not even a demon. It's a nun thing." The female demon glared at her. "But, if I put your belt around my knees, my skirts stay up, you cut my throat, I die quick, you collect your blood, all done and dusted." She smiled brightly, and held out her hand.

"Well, uh, okay," he agreed reluctantly. The female demon nodded, and he handed over his belt.

"This will only take a sec," Sister Fic told them, bending down, "Then perhaps if I sit down, you can... oh. Er." She straightened up again.

"Now what?" demanded the female demon impatiently.

"Um, this is kind of embarrassing," Felicity said, "But... I really need to pee."

"What?" sighed the male demon, with the sort of bemused expression that parents all over the world use when they say things like 'But you went only ten minutes ago!' or 'Why didn't you go _before_ we left?'.

"Sorry," the nun apologised again. "Look, I'm about to have my throat cut, you ought to excuse me a bit of bladder weakness."

"Hold it until you get to Heaven," snarled the female demon. "String her up!"

"But what if it contaminates the blood?" Felicity yelped.

Both demons looked at her.

"I'm really frightened," she went on, "What with being sacrificed and everything, and I really need to go. So, what happens if I, you know, while you're bleeding me out? And it runs down, and, and, contaminates the blood?" The demons exchanged a mystified glance. "Can you still use the blood if it's contaminated with pee?"

"Oh, Lucifer's nuts..." scowled the male demon.

"We'll just have to chance it," the female smiled unpleasantly.

"But... won't you get into trouble?" asked the nun solicitously.

That made them hesitate.

"Look we're not going on a bathroom visit!" snapped the woman, "We're demons, not home room monitors!"

"I don't need a bathroom," Sister Fic assured them. "See that waste bin over there? I could use that. It's kind of an emergency," she added, crossing her legs. "There's nowhere for me to run, anyway."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," muttered the male, "Take her over there, and be quick."

"Why do I have to do it?" yelled the female demon angrily.

"Because I don't want to watch a nun pee, all right?" he shouted back. "Just... do it!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Come on, come on," Sam muttered under his breath, trying another sigil over the one under the handle. There was a small, palpable _crack _as the malign influence gave way, and the warding broke. "Okay, we're in."

"Search grid," instructed Dean, heading one way as Sam headed the other. "Find her, and if you find them, check in."

"Gotcha." Sam hefted his gun and his demon blade, and set off into the darkness, whilst Dean and Jimi made their way stealthily through the shadows.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Won't be a minute," Sister Fic said apologetically, making her way to the small waste bin. "It's just like going camping," she added, as she started to gather her habit out of the way.

"Hurry up," snapped her reluctant escort, "Or I'll give you something to really wet yourself about."

"Okay, okay." Sister Felicity took care of business. "Ohhhhh, that's better..."

"Shut up!"

"Sorry." She straightened her habit. "Much better. Thank you. Oh, hang on, I'll just belt my skirts, then we'll be ready to go." She looked down. "Er could one of you give me a hand with this?"

The female demon rolled her eyes. "Get over here and watch her," she snapped at her male accomplice.

He let out a put-upon huff, and stomped over. "What the hell is it now?" he moaned.

"Just gotta get my skirts belted," Sister Fic said. "Here, can you hold this bit out of the way?"

The female demon grudgingly obliged, bending down to grab at the flapping fabric.

"Thank you," Sister Felicity said brightly, bending down to pick up the belt.

Only, it wasn't the belt that she picked up and threw at them...

When the demons fell to the floor, writhing and screaming as the hissing steam rose from them, she shot across the room, snatched up one of the markers they'd been using, and ran.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam pulled out his cell and started running when he heard the agonised screaming coming from somewhere in the building.

"I heard it," Dean replied, "Somewhere upstairs, I think. Be careful!"

He found a metal staircase, and made his way quickly and quietly up the stairs, following the screams.

"Where?" he asked urgently when he saw Dean and Jimi making their way in the same direction.

"That way," nodded Dean, as Jimi growled and headed silently for the other end of the long corridor.

In a wide space cleared of furniture, the floor was intricately marked with arcane symbols. To one side, there was an empty water cooler, and an overturned waste paper bin. And a demon, drenched, screeching in pain, and billowing with sulphurous steam.

It raised a hand and an invisible blow threw Dean across the room. He landed with a squawk as Sam sank his blade into it, and scrunched his eyes as it burned out.

"Dean!" he scuttled to where his brother was gasping and swearing.

" 'M fine," his big brother wheezed, "Go… find Fic!"

"She's not here," Sam looked around as he hauled his brother to his feet, then saw the second large puddle, and the trail of wet footsteps. "But it looks like another one is still after her."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The female demon staggered after her prey, trailing greasy, stinking steam where the holy… stuff had touched her. She gasped in pain and swore as she crashed through one door after another, throwing aside the furniture that had been hastily but futilely pushed against them.

"I'll fucking kill you!" she shrieked, partly in rage and partly in pain, "I'll make you suffer, and then I'll fucking kill you! You bitch!" She paused, looking around. That fucking nun couldn't have gone far...

She heard the scraping sound of something, a chair perhaps, being pushed across a floor, wedged under a door handle, maybe.

With a cruel smirk, she gave the door a shove, and it banged open.

"You fucking bitch," she repeated, glaring at the nun who stood in the middle of the room. "I. Am. Going. To. Make. You. Scream... " she paused, and looked down.

"I'm pretty sure I got it right," Sister Felicity said, looking down at the devil's trap she was standing in. She waved the napkin that Sam had drawn on. "My little brother showed it to me."

The demon couldn't help herself – she began to laugh. "You idiot!" she roared, "A devil's trap is for catching demons! You're supposed to put the demon in the trap, not yourself! You stay on the _outside_, and catch the demon on the_ inside_! You fucking moron!" She laughed heartily.

The expression on the nun's face went from hope, to despair. "Oh, dear," she said sadly. "Oh, well, it was worth a try." She raised her head to the face the demon. "I suppose you'll come and grab me and drag me away, now," she finished.

"I'm going to do more than that," smirked the demon, "I'm going to..."

She stopped herself just in time, with her foot hovering over the outline of the trap, drawn in marker, on the stained linoleum.

From the centre of the design, Felicity smiled.

"Did I do it right, then?" she asked brightly.

The demon glared at her.

"We've found you now," she purred dangerously. "We've found you, and you can't stay in that trap forever. I'll be back, with reinforcements. You can run, but you can't hide..."

Behind her, Sam burst through the door, demon blade at the ready.

It was a wicked strike, but the demon was quicker: she dodged deftly, and grabbed Sam by the scruff of his cassock.

"Whoa, not good," he managed, before she hurled him at the wall, where he slid down to the floor, wheezing for breath.

"And here I was, thinking the evening was a complete write-off," she sneered, kicking his knife away. "But at least I'll get to break your neck."

"O… okay," Sam gasped, pushing himself to his knees. "Just… keep… doing that."

"Oh, you like it rough, tough guy?" The demon laughed.

"No," he grinned up at her, and spat blood. "Just… Keep gloating. Because it gives… the dog… more time…"

Jimi burst through the door, eyes burning furnace-hot red, hellteeth bristling, jaws gaping, to seize hold of the demon and shake her like a rag doll.

"Already dead!" shouted Felicity when she saw Dean limp in after his dog with his knife drawn. He quickly sank it into the demon's side, and they all turned away from the burning light.

Jimi finally let go, and retracted his teeth, when the demon was destroyed.

"Well," announced Felicity, dusting off her habit and stepping out of the devil's trap, "I take back everything I said about my life being mundane." She retrieved Sam's knife, and walked over to where her brothers were collapsed on the floor, groaning. "Er, what are you doing?" she asked.

"Rescuing… you," panted Sam. "Ow."

"And writhing in… discomfort," added Dean. " 'S okay, we're good. We do this… all the time."

"My heroes," she chuckled. "You both need to work on your landings."

"Screw you," grumbled Dean, sitting up. "Oh, fuck, I hate demons."

Felicity checked them over for anything broken, pronounced them shaken but not stirred, then hauled them upright one at a time, and herded them back out to the car, where she rummaged through the trunk until she found the first aid kit.

"Sit," she commanded.

"Woof," griped Dean, "Do I get a treat now?"

"Only if you're a brave boy," she replied, breaking out the cotton and the peroxide. "That's a pretty impressive abrasion you got there. How I'm supposed to explain this, I don't know; if people think I've been beating up a blind priest, I'll be out on my ass before morning…"

"I'm fine," protested Dean automatically, "I gotta look at Sammy, he's…"

"I said, sit, _little brother_," she growled.

"Yeah, do what your older sibling tells you, Dean," grinned Sam, "You're always telling me that you know best because you're older than m-hey!"

"You too," she instructed, pushing Sam backwards until he sat on the hood next to his brother. "Dean's right, you got blood on your shirt. God knows what you've cut your arm on. Take your overshirt off, and tear off the sleeve underneath. And you," she turned back to Dean, and dabbed at his face, "Hold still."

"Ow!" went Dean.

"Oh, don't be such a baby," she told him. "You don't want a scar on this pretty face, do you? No lasting blemish on the irresistible visage of the Living Sex God? I said take your overshirt off, Sam. _Littler brother_."

"That's my job," Dean muttered sullenly, "Looking after my little brother is my job."

"That's all I'm doing," Felicity pointed out reasonably.

"She's a harpy," griped Sam, wiggling out of his top layer.

"She's a cow," agreed Dean, wincing at the sting of the disinfectant.

"I be dat asshole," Felicity smiled agreeably.

When her brothers had been tended to her satisfaction, Dean announced that they were heading straight to Bobby's, in a tone that brooked no argument.

"We're heading back to St Claire's first," Felicity qualified.

"Fic," Dean said in a firm tone, "We can come back and get your stuff later..."

"Screw my stuff," sniffed Felicity, "I happened to notice that Father Kennedy had some very good booze stashed in that garden, and right now, I need a frigging drink. Oh, yeah," she deftly extracted Baby's keys from Dean's pocket. "I'm driving. In case you start to show symptoms of concussion."

"Yep," Sam grinned wryly, "She's a Winchester."

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Sam had photos of the layout the demons had prepared, including a small side altar, and they'd gathered up its contents on the way out. Felicity recounted all the details of what the demons had said. Once they were on the road, Sam called Bobby, and started to relay what had happened as briefly as he could, sending pictures via his phone and the laptop, whilst Dean kept up a rumbling background vowel-free grumble about being evicted from his rightful place behind the wheel.

"Another Winchester, eh?" Bobby said finally. With the phone set on speaker, they could practically hear him scratching his head over the phone. "And another damned idjit, from the sound of it. That was a hell of a gamble you took, missy."

"I give her full points for quick thinking," Dean commented. "Whoever would have guessed that nun's pee acts like holy water?"

"I had nothing to lose," shrugged Felicity, "I was going to have my throat cut. And I thought, I'm sanctified - consecrated to God - so, maybe if the spring is blessed already, the water will come out pre-holified..."

"Heh heh, pre-holified," Bobby chuckled. "That's a damned good trick, though. I've never seen that mentioned in any of my books."

"The wards were blood magic, and they were planning to collect her blood, Bobby," Sam informed him, "All of it. They were planning something really nasty."

"Aren't they always?" tutted their practically father. "That's comin' through now, Sam. I'll have a look at it, and we'll see what we can make of it when you get here. Drive carefully. I look forward to meeting your big sister. Pre-holified, heh heh heh..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They made it to Singer Salvage in the wee small hours, having spent a lot of the trip with Sam and Dean relating stories of the things they'd gotten up to at Casa Singer, both as kids and then as adults.

"A nativity scene with Jesus being cradled by the Michelin Man?" she sounded incredulous. "You put it on his _roof_?"

"Glory be unto All Terrain Baby Jesus," pronounced Dean piously. "Yeah, the Virgin Mary figure was actually bolted down, so I had to improvise. It could have been worse; there was a music shop at the mall with a life sized cut-out of Gene Simmons."

"Mr Balls is either some sort of martyr, or some sort of sucker to have put up with you two," she mused, as the car pulled in through the front gates.

Bobby was waiting to meet them. "So," he said, when Felicity walked up to the door, "The oldest Winchester." He smiled. "You definitely look like Dean," he said, "And you're welcome to my house."

"Thank you, Mr Singer," she said.

"The last time a nun addressed me as 'Mr Singer', it was at school, and it let me know that I was in trouble," he chortled. "Just Bobby will do."

"So, what do you think Bobby?" Sam asked. "What were those damned demons planning to do?"

"I'll have to look up a couple more books," Bobby told them, "But right now, I'm so tired that my eyes are crossin'. So, I suggest that we all retire, and reconvene in the morning. You'll be safe here," he assured Felicity, "This place is warded tighter than a nun's nasty..."

There was a moment of silence as his brain caught up with what he'd just said.

"Um," Bobby stammered, "There's a room you can have. Upstairs. Next to them idjits. Uh."

"Thank you, Bobby," she smiled and rose, "Perhaps one of the idjits can show me where it is." She turned, and headed for the stairs. "Oh, and just so you know," she grinned a little evilly, "Tomorrow, I intend to ask you exactly how you know how tight a nun's nasty is. Goodnight."

* * *

C'mon, guys! Review it like you stole it!

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Hurtling Through The Air To Land Next To You On The Sofa Of Life! (You may request shirt removal and dab the blood off them if they are bruised and abraded.)

They also get you a place on the DDD&SSS crew... or the pirate vessel _Jimiverse,_ I haven't decided yet...


	21. Chapter Twenty

**Chapter Twenty**

The Winchesters and Bobby had breakfast, then gathered in the living room, where the table was already strewn with books, notes, sketches and the detritus of Bobby's research.

"So, this design," he pointed to a print-out of what Sam had sent of the demons' working, "I haven't seen anything exactly like it, but it looks a bit like this." He indicated a page in a large, yellowed tome. "A spell to tamper with the proper workings of... natural consequences."

"Messing with reality?" asked Sam.

"Not exactly," Bobby qualified, "Just kind of fiddling with it around the edges. Even that, though, takes serious, high level mojo." He tapped at the book. "The crazy old coot who tried to work this one was a high level practitioner – he failed, but he wasn't using blood. Blood signifies that it was something real nasty. It's not a summoning, which leads me to suspect it's a destruction ritual. And this one," he indicated the small altar, "It looks like it _was_ a summoning, or a communication."

"One demon did say she had to set up a long-distance call," Felicity reminded him. "And they were doing this for somebody else. To get brownie points. And they were worried about the idea that somebody would be angry if they screwed up."

"So, minions setting up for a boss," mused Sam. "They do the grunt work, then call in the Big Banana to work the spell. But what spell?"

"Something they needed Fic for," Dean said, "Fic, specifically. A Winchester. They needed lots of Winchester blood, to do something pretty damned evil."

"That doesn't narrow it down much," Sam reminded him, "We got hundreds, if not thousands, of demons who'd give their pitchforks to take some sort of shot at us."

"Well, it looks like we hit the coffee and the books from here," sighed Bobby. "A blood spell, and possibly a destruction ritual." He started to divide the books up amongst them. "We're lookin' for anything that might be relevant. So, get to it, kids."

They spent the morning combing through various books, manuscripts and grimoires. They found a couple of descriptions of workings along similar lines, but no reports of anyone being able to get it to work.

"There's one here," announced Felicity, "A nobleman who wanted to get rid of his wife in the 1400s. He sought a divorce first – yeah, good luck with that six hundred years ago – then decided to try to get rid of her with a blood ritual."

"Show me what you got there, missy," instructed Bobby. She handed over the book. "Oh yeah, he wanted to mess with normal events a little to rid himself of his wife," chuckled Bobby. "Figured that if he could come up with a spell just to tweak reality a little, he could kill her in the seemingly normal course of events. Make her fall from her horse, and break her neck." He consulted the print-out. "His working bears similarities to the demonic one."

"Why didn't he just off her, if he wanted to get rid of her?" asked Dean.

"There were laws against murder then, too," Sam reminded him.

"Bingo," said Bobby, reading on. "He didn't want to get caught murdering her, or have any suspicion of foul play, so he figured a blood ritual to get rid of her, with no incriminating evidence, was the way to go. It didn't work, though." He turned the page. "Oh, at least, it didn't work the first time." He kept reading. "Well, isn't that interesting," he stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"What?" chorused all three Winchesters.

"Says here, he postulated that the blood required had to be human blood," Bobby went on. "Seems he tried it with human blood – paid a sexton at a local churchyard to bleed out a corpse – but that didn't work either."

"So, it has to be blood collected from a, uh, freshly murdered person," nodded Sam. "Figures."

"More to it than that," Bobby continued, "He tried that, too, some poor scullery maid. Abducted her, bled her out, and used her blood. But... oh..."

"Oh? Oh? What's oh, Bobby?" demanded Dean. "Oh, as in, 'Oh, I've got a paper cut', or oh as in, 'Oh, and then the aliens landed and impregnated everybody with their embryos that would later burst out and kill them all horribly'?"

"Maybe more of an 'Aha!' than an 'Oh', then," conceded Bobby. "His wife didn't die. But another maid did, and so did a scullion boy. Bizarre accidents. The maid was trampled by a runaway horse as she fetched water, and the scullion slipped on a step, and broke his neck."

"So, did he not have it, what, 'aimed' properly?" wondered Sam.

"I think he never realised what he was aiming it at to start with," replied Bobby grimly. "Because they were the brother and sister of the murdered maid." He kept reading. "Seems he was never held accountable for killin' the maid, but he was tried and hanged for witchcraft."

"So," Fic looked thoughful, "Somebody wanted my blood... to tinker around the edges of their reality?" she jerked a thumb at her brothers.

"Certainly sounds like the sort of thing some asshole demon would like do," Sam smiled tightly.

"Really?" Dean sounded dubious. "Demons, yeah, they hate us, they want us dead, but, surely, there had to be an easier way to do it?"

"Maybe not," grinned Bobby. "You two have a talent for stayin' alive when attacked by demons, and openin' a can of whoop-ass on any that get too close to you."

"And they do like to scheme," Sam reminded him.

Bobby looked thoughtfully at Felicity. "The angels never went after you when they were looking for alternative vessels for Mike and Luci to pull each other's pigtails," he noted, "Somehow, you were off the radar. But it figures that the info would get out sooner or later; news like the existence of another Winchester, even an illegitimate one, was never going to stay buried forever." He took a sip of his coffee. "So, let's say that somewhere, somehow, some asshole demon found out that there was a third Winchester, but didn't know who, or where. So, that demon sends out minions with instructions: find the family that adopted the kid, then go find the grown-up kid, then I want that grown-up kid's blood."

"So, we know the what," Dean accepted, "But we don't know the who. Damn it, if only we could've hung onto one of those demons..."

"Not really an option at the time," Sam pointed out ruefully. "If we'd taken a chance on it, and it escaped, it would have warned any others that we were onto the plan."

"Why don't we just finish the summoning?" suggested Felicity, "Can you do that?"

The three men stared at her.

"One of 'em said she was going to set up a long-distance call," she shrugged, "Presumably to whoever sent them. Can we draw up another demon trap, then make the call, and see who or what turns up?"

Bobby smiled slowly. "You know, if I didn't know better," he grinned, "I'd say she was a Winchester."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It didn't take long to set up the required altar in the middle of a devil's trap, arrange the items that Sam had collected from the demons' set up, and prepare to work the summoning.

"Er," Bobby smiled sheepishly, "We're gonna need some Winchester blood to make this authentic." He waggled a small and very ugly goblet. "Just a bit. Not a whole armful."

"Figures," grumbled Felicity, taking the knife Sam offered and cutting her arm. "I'm noticing a theme, here, there seems to be blood involved in a lot of it. Are you sure demons don't sit around all day watching 'Twilight' DVDs? Some of the matinee session had a Twilight weekend; poor Father Tran had to go and have a lie down after hearing confession."

When everything was in place, Bobby picked up the small goblet, sprinkled in a few herbs, and began the recitation.

The call was answered quickly.

It began with a thrumming that set into the floor, like a sleepy earthquake. Jimi looked down, and growled, his eyes glowing.

Next, a sulphurous breeze picked up, to be followed by wisps of black smoke, shot through with streaks of red. The wisps coalesced until they were a swirling, roiling bank churning on the ceiling.

"Looks like somebody wants to make an impressive entrance," remarked Bobby disdainfully. "Put the fear of fear into the minions."

The smoke writhed, and twisted, and finally drew together into a spinning, wailing column, until it collapsed in on itself with a small thunderclap. The small altar exploded.

A figure stood where it had been.

"Oh, well done, children," it began, clapping its hands together, "I am so very pleased with you, this evening I think we shall have to open a bottle of something really speciiiiiEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Bobby let out a snarl to rival Jimi's. "God's tits!" he roared. "_CROWLEY!" _

* * *

... but you'd all already guessed that, hadn't you? :-)

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Joining You To Puzzle Over A Book In The Living Room Of Life!

**Dean:** Can mine be the Kama Sutra?

**Lampito:** Be quiet, or I shall throw you to the crew. If I can stop them from licking the chocolate anchor.


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

**Sam: **We're back on a ship.

**Dean (licking the anchor): **Yeah, it is made of chocolate!

**Sam:** That's a really bad sign - I think we should get out of here.

**Dean:** I bet I look really cool in this hat.

**Sam:** Maybe there's a lifeboat or something we can take...

**Dean:** Hey, ships have rum on board, right?

**Sam:** Mostly, it was used as an anaesthetic or a disinfectant.

**Dean:** I got a really sore throat.

**Sam:** Help me.

**Dean:** Hey, look, there's a bottle now!

_He reaches for the bottle of rum on the deck._

**Sam:** Dean, don't touch it!

_A net falls and entangles them._

**Sam: **You idiot! We're stuck in a net!

**Dean (drinking): **Doesn't matter had drink.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Later, they would think about how comical the next ten seconds were.

During those ten seconds, Crowley's expression went from glee, to confusion, to panic, to terror, to desperation, to considering cunning, to discarding that idea very quickly, to resignation, to the idea of brazening it out, to the possibility of pleading ignorance, to charming, to sheepish, to wheedling, to a resigned acceptance that he had been caught out, sprung bad, and generally found guilty as sin by way of overwhelming evidence.

A tiny little comet of smoke appeared, whizzed around him a couple of times, then dropped to the floor and resolved into Gedda the teacup Hellpoodle. She yipped happily, wagged her tail, and bounded over to Bobby.

"Bobby, mate!" trilled the King of Hell, "How wonderful to see you again!"

Bobby glared at him, not taking his eyes off the demon as he bent to scratch the Hellpoodle's ears.

"Oh, she's so fond of you," Crowley beamed, "Aren't you, Gedda, my darling, you just love to visit Uncle Bobby..."

Bobby glared at him.

Crowley looked down at the devil's trap. "Er, do you think you could do something about this? Cramping my style just a little."

Bobby glared at him.

"Ah, and the brothers Winchester," Crowley forced himself to smile at them. "Hello again, boys. Long time no blackmail, ha ha ha!"

Bobby glared at him.

"And if I'm not mistaken, you have found your sibling!" he smiled brightly. "A sister! A sister who's a Sister, ha ha ha! Oh, how wonderful for you! I do love a family reunion _*sniff*_ I'm sure you'll have so much to talk about..."

Bobby glared at him.

"Bobby," he said carefully, "Bobby, love, this isn't what it looks like..."

"Who the fuck is that?" asked Felicity.

"Ah, allow me to introduce myself, good Sister," Crowley performed a polite little bow. "I am Crowley, King of Hell, and one of Bobby's oldest friends, in fact, I _am_ his oldest friend, by a few hundred years, ha ha ha..."

She gazed at him in disbelief. "You're shitting me," she stated.

"No, madam, no, I shit you not," he went on hurriedly, "On such an important matter, I assure you, I do not shit. I am indeed the CEO, ruler and all around Big Boss Man of Hell." He smiled his most winning smile.

She looked him up and down. "You're not what I expected," she said eventually.

"Well, of course, most people expect Lucifer in the role," Crowley nodded judiciously, "But the Lord of Perdition is currently, how shall I put this, on... sabbatical leave..."

"He's a chihuahua," Felicity interrupted. "With a circus strong man. Getting fat on pasta. Dean and Sam told me."

"Well, your Eternal Father works in mysterious ways, yes?" suggested Crowley. "Who's to say that mine doesn't do the same, a chip off the old block, perhaps..."

"That wasn't what I meant, anyway," she cut him off. "I meant that I'd thought that the Supreme Bitch Of Hell would look a lot more imposing. Taller, maybe. A bit more buff, perhaps. A little bit more, you know, a bit more... tempting. More Jared Padalecki, less Mark Shepard."

Crowley gave her a hurt look. "If you say one thing about me being 'cuddly'," he began.

"I was going to say 'avuncular'," she commented, "But now you mention it, yeah, cuddly. You're cuddlier than I'd imagined." She bent down to pet the little Hellpoodle, who was wuffing for her attention. "And so is your dog."

"I'll have you know that Gedda there is one of the most feared Hellhounds of the Pit," insisted Crowley. "So, I'll just pop out and find a better host, shall I?" he added sourly. "You like 'em tall? You like 'em buff? Football player perhaps? Or a bodybuilder? Why you'd bother I don't know, surely you could get the same effect by hugging a pair of panty hose stuffed with melons..."

"Crowley," Bobby finally spoke in a dangerously quiet voice, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Well, I was just, you know," Crowley began, "I was just doing what demons do, ordering the minions around, sending them forth, practising my evil laugh, bwahahahahaha..."

"You sent them to find Fic, and kill her!" snarled Dean. "You wanted to kill our sister, in order to kill us!"

"No!" yelped Crowley desperately. "No no no! No! No!. No. No." He shot a pleading look from Bobby back to the Winchesters. "Or, if I'm brutally honest, yes."

"Crowley," Bobby growled again, "Explain to me why I shouldn't end you right here and right now."

"They wouldn't have suffered!" the King of Hell shrieked. "It would've been quick! Oil on the road, a flip of the car, a snap of the necks, a tragic accident, it would've been humane and bloodless!"

"Well, gee," Felicity humphed, "That makes it all right, then."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Bobby snarled, "There's a third one! You were prepared to bleed her out like a steer carcass to do that! You were going to murder her, to murder them!"

"Uh, well, yes, that was the, er, collateral damage," Crowley agreed. "Sorry," he said, smiling at Felicity.

"Why, Crowley?" Dean demanded. "Why? Why would you kill our sister, to get to us? Why not just send your minions straight for us? Why drag somebody else into it?"

"I'm I demon!" Crowley wailed, "It's what demons do!"

"I think I know why," Sam said quietly, a small smile on his face.

Crowley swallowed anxiously. "Because I'm a total arsehole, an utter bastard, and a scumbag demon who'd kill somebody for fun without thinking, right?" he said brightly.

"Well, that too," conceded Sam. "But what you have to understand, Fic, is that Crowley here is King of Hell. Which is to say, he's at the top of the heap." Crowley nodded eagerly. "But, having clawed his way to the top of the shitheap, wherever he looks, he's still surrounded by turds."

"Yes, yes I am," Crowley nodded again, "You wouldn't believe what I have to put up with, Sister, demons are the most ungrateful creatures, I work myself to the bone for them and what do I get? A complete lack of thanks or even respect..."

"It's true," Sam confirmed, "He's surrounded by idiots, assholes, scheming demonic nobility, utter bastards, and countless legions of Hell's inhabitants who barely tolerate him and would cheerfully see him reduced to a sulphurous little smear."

"I am a martyr to my job," sighed Crowley in a put-upon fashion.

"He runs the place, but at the end of the day, Hell is Hell," Sam went on. "It's not a nice place. And, well, Crowley here, avuncular, cuddly little Crowley, he's like the weird smart kid at school with no friends. I think he finds it lonely at the top." Sam couldn't contain his smirk. "I think, deep down underneath, he just wants somebody to talk to."

"Oh, yeah, he's got such a man-crush on Bobby," Dean laughed. "He turns up here, with single malt Scotch, and says he wants to educate Bobby's palate."

"Of course, Bobby just calls him 'idjit', and shoots him with Mark IX Anti-Demon rounds," Sam told Felicity, "And the dogs tear his clothes, and the gargoyles steal his ties and his phone and one of them pees holy water on him..."

"What cheeky little scamps they are," Crowley smiled through gritted teeth.

"But he keeps on trying," Sam continued. "Now, just think, one day, he stumbles across the fact that there's another Winchester, one born before John and Mary got married, and he thinks, hey, I remember hearing about this really interesting spell, what if Dean and Sam died in an accident, completely free of apparent demonic activity, what would happen with Bobby then?"

The evil grin on Felicity's face showed that she was following his line of reasoning. "Bobby would be devastated," she inferred. "Utterly, utterly devastated. Grief-stricken. Inconsolable."

"Totally. But," he turned back to Crowley. "He wouldn't really be all alone, would he? He'd have his 'friend' Crowley – who had absolutely nothing to do with the tragic deaths – at the ready to step up, and offer consoling company, give him a shoulder to cry on, and very good quality booze for a sad and lonely old man to drown his sorrows. And who knows, maybe, just maybe, that support would be enough to convince Bobby to reciprocate with, well, if not friendship, maybe at least a lessening of the utter loathing and despising. And who knows, even against the odds, a sad, lonely demon might cling to the faint hope that with time, luck, and a lot of single malt, bromance might blossom…"

Dean's mouth opened and shut a couple of times. "Crowley," he announced, "Even for a demon, you are a scheming, immoral asshat."

"Why, thank you, dear boy," Crowley smirked momentarily. "It was a joke!" he added hurriedly when he saw Bobby's expression. "It was a joke!"

"You," breathed Bobby, "You were gonna kill my boys... and my girl, here... just to try to get me to be your _friend_?"

"Let's not take this as an indication of the depth of my evilness, Bobby," Crowley smiled worriedly, "Let's look at it as an indication of just how highly I value your intelligent, engaging and fascinating company..."

"You wanted to kill my brothers," said Felicity quietly.

"Um," Crowley said, "Er, yes. Sorry."

"You only wanted me so you could kill them without being found out," she added.

"Er, yes?" Crowley agreed tentatively.

With a face like thunder, she walked across the trap towards the demon.

"Hey, Fic," Dean called in alarm, "That's not a good idea, he's still a demon, and a powerful one..."

Felicity stood toe to toe with Crowley. "You vicious, cowardly, pissant little Limey shit," she hissed at him.

"Er, well, guilty as charged," he offered sheepishly. "Look, dear lady, all I can say is..."

She hauled off and hit him as hard as she could.

To the surprise of everybody, Crowley went down like a sack of potatoes.

He clambered to his feet, a look of surprise on his face. "You shouldn't be able to do that," he told her in disbelief. That..." he put a hand to his jaw in bewilderment. "That... that really _hurt_..."

"Interesting," mused Bobby.

"Working like a blessed weapon?" theorised Dean.

"Sanctified and consecrated to God," nodded Sam, "And, apparently, effective against demons."

"That's for trying to bleed me out!" Felicity shouted at Crowley, then pistoned her knee into his groin as hard as she could, which made him fold up into a squeaking, gasping pile. "And that's for your scumbag underlings possessing Sister Agnes and Sister Lucia!" she yelled at him.

The menfolk watched in bemusement as she pulled a small jar of yellow liquid from her apron, opened it, and upended it over Crowley. He began to steam, and writhe in agony.

"And THAT'S FOR MESSING WITH MY LITTLE BROTHERS!" she thundered at him, giving him a final kick.

"You shouldn't be able to do that!" he moaned breathily, a sob starting in his throat as the steam spat and hissed from him, "Sister, please... you're a nun!"

She turned back to face him, and her expression was something he hoped he'd never face again...

"_I'M A FUCKING NOVICE!"_ she roared, before stalking off.

"Yup," grinned Bobby, "She's definitely a Winchester."

"Owwwwww," wailed Crowley, clutching at his jaw and his groin, "Oh, she hurt me, Bobby, she hurt me..."

"Good," humphed Bobby. "I'm only disappointed that I can't do the same."

Crowley gazed at him miserably. "You don't mean that, really?" he pleaded.

Bobby considered the matter. "Nope, I guess I don't," he conceded.

"I knew it!" Crowley smiled a brave, wobbly little smile, "I knew that really, deep down inside, you..."

"What I really would rather do is just kill you outright," Bobby snapped. Crowley's face fell. "If it wasn't for the fact that you are the only think keepin' order in Hell, I would cheerfully stand back and let these two stab you with their demon blades."

Sam smiled angelically, and Dean gave Crowley a little wave.

"There are days, Bobby," sniffled Crowley, "There are days, darling, when I'm feeling particularly down, that I think that if somebody assassinated me, you wouldn't lift a finger to do anything about it."

"Now, you know that's not true," Bobby said, "You know I'd adopt your dog. She's such an adorable little thing, aint ya, Gedda?" The Hellpoodle grinned doggily at Bobby, and butted against his leg for more pats.

"Et tu, Gedda," sighed Crowley. "I don't know what I've ever done to deserve the disdain you heap so callously upon me," insisted the King of Hell, his bottom lip wibbling.

"Ha! How long have you got?" asked Bobby snidely. "So, Your Majesty, my suggestion to you is that you get the hell off my property, and stay the hell off my property. Because if I see you again," he lowered his voice, "I will give you both barrels with the mark IX Anti Demon ammo, just on general principles. And if you ever, _ever_, come after my boys – or my girl – again, you or your minions, I will Hunt you, and I will _end _you, do you hear me, you asshole?"

"Bobby..." Crowley pleaded.

"I will come after you with salt, holy water, consecrated iron, half a dozen weapons you don't even know I got, and a minibus full of elderly nuns of dubious continence!" Bobby barked. "Now, get the hell out, before I change my mind about lettin' you off so lightly."

"Lightly?" Crowley was indignant. "Lightly? You call that getting off lightly? She broke my jaw, and tried to set me on fire, and next time I sing in the shower, I shall definitely be an octave higher!"

Bobby picked up the shotgun he'd left close to hand. "Out," he growled. "Now."

"Bobby, love, this has all been a terrible, terrible misunderstanding," tried Crowley.

Bobby cocked the gun. "One," he said.

"In fact, I'm having second thoughts!" Crowley yelped. "Life really would be no fun without Rocky and Bullwinkle to make things interesting!"

Bobby raised the muzzle. "Two," he counted.

"And they give me something to frighten the youngsters in the Lower Circles with!" Crowley offered. "Behave, children, I say, or one day, the Winchesters will creep into your cave, and snatch you from your rack, and drag you away and eat you all up!"

"Two and a half."

"You could just exorcise me, you know," suggested Crowley, "You have such an impressive speaking voice, darling, real authority and gravitas, such polished classical pronunciation, it's just such a relief to be banished by an educated man for a change. I could listen to you exorcise all day, so to speak..."

"Two and three quarters..."

"Talk holy to me, Bobby!" squeaked Crowley.

"THREE!"

Bobby pulled the trigger. Both barrels of Mark IX Anti-Demon ammo discharged, but Crowley was gone. A wailing column of smoke speared away back down into the ground. Somehow, the wailing noise managed to sound mournful.

_Bobbyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy yyyyyy..._

"Idjit," muttered Bobby.

"I could almost feel sorry for him," chortled Dean. "No, I don't."

"It's kinda satisfying to know that, even for the King of Hell, Hell is, well, hellish," opined Sam.

"It's self inflicted, and I got no sympathy," griped Bobby, bending down to pat Gedda again. "You better go with him," he told her, "He's feeling a bit down, and probably wants some company. Go on, go do the unconditional dog love thing." She barked happily a couple of times, chased her tail, then sprang away, a happy little streak of white smoke whizzing after the larger black one.

"So, job done," Dean said. "Bad guy identified, convent break-ins derailed, evil spell thwarted, Crowley gone crying back home, happy ending, roll credits, fade to black. Which means we can now concentrate on finding another way to break my curse."

"What curse?" asked Bobby.

"I'll, uh, just go see if Fic needs, needs, yeah," said Sam hurriedly, leaving the room. They heard the back door open, and bang shut.

"You know, my chastity curse," Dean went on. "You helped Sam to figure out a fix for it. Well, you gotta come up with something else."

"Huh?" queried Bobby, scratching his head.

"Look, I've tried the whole outwardly chaste for 24 hours thing," Dean told him, "I really have, but it's just beyond the capacity of the Living Sex God. Going without has been difficult enough, but not even talking about it? Not even hinting? Seriously, there's gotta be another way to break it."

"You feelin' okay, Dean?" Bobby asked in a worried tone. "Sam never called me about any curse – I didn't hear from him before he called to say you'd found Fic."

"But..." Dean blinked. "The curse on me..."

"Son," Bobby replied, "I thought we'd talked about this. It was a just damaged muscle in your leg. Deeper tissues take longer to heal. It should be well and truly okay by now."

"But... Sam said..."

"There was no curse, Dean," Bobby rolled his eyes, "It was all in your imagination, ya idjit."

"Then..." Dean's expression went from confusion to anger. "Excuse me, Bobby," he said politely, heading the way Sam had gone, "I just gotta go take care of something... _FRANCIS!_"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"They often do this?" asked Felicity.

"Yup," Bobby sighed, as they watched Sam and Dean wrestle on the ground in the yard. Jimi watched on, tail wagging, barking encouragement to both of them. "Since they were big enough to argue."

"You bitch!" yelled Dean, getting Sam into a headlock, "You told me I was cursed!"

"You told yourself you were cursed!" Sam yelled back, elbowing Dean in the ribs, "And I'll take any opportunity to get you to shut up about sex for a few days, you jerk!"

"I've been deprived, Sam, deprived, because of your sick joke!" yowled Dean, grabbing Sam's arm and twisting. "The Living Sex God has been deprived!"

"Depraved, Dean, you're depraved!" snapped Sam, throwing his weight backwards. "The word you're looking for is depraved!"

"Okay, that's enough, guys," suggested Felicity. "Big sister is calling time."

"He's a bitch!" shouted Dean, punching Sam's kidneys.

"Oof! He's a jerk!" Sam yelled, driving the back of his head into his brother's solar plexus.

"Well, you can be a bitch and a jerk without beating the crap out of each other," she said, stepping in and reaching down. "Come on, enough."

"Back off, cow!" growled Dean, kicking out at her.

"Yeah, back off, harpy!" agreed Sam, slapping her arm away.

"Ohhh, you little shits," she snarled. "You are so dead!" She reached down, and gave Sam's arm a good yank.

"Ow!" he wailed.

"Shut it,_ little_ brother!" she snapped, dodging his punch, "I said, that's enou – oof!" Dean's leg shot out, and took hers from under her. "Right, you dick, you asked for it..."

Bobby stood and watched for a while, then went back inside. In his experience, when Winchesters started wrestling it out, the best thing to do was let them get it out of their systems. It sounded like the start of a joke, he mused; a tall guy, a ladies' man and a nun get into a wrestling match...

He headed to the kitchen to pour himself another coffee, smiling contentedly to himself. The sun was shining, the birds were singing...

"Cow!"

"Dick!"

"Bitch!"

"Jerk!"

"Sissy!"

"Harpy!"

"Whuff!"

... and the sounds from the yard confirmed that, just then, things were as normal as they ever got, Castiel was in his Heaven and all was right with the world.

* * *

_Dean and Sam dangle in the net over the wading pool full of jello_

**Dean and Sam**: Aaaaaaaaaargh!

So, send me reviews - or else, I will NOT drop them in!

**Dean and Sam:** AAAAAAAAAARGH!


	23. Epilogue

**Dean (cutting through net): **I think I got it, hang on…

**Sam: **No!

_They drop out of the net_

_*splat*_

**Sam: **Aaaaargh! It's squishy! It's disgusting!

**Dean: **Dude, it's strawberry jello.

**Sam:** Why are we in strawberry jello? What are we supposed to do in a pool of strawberry jello?

**Dean: **Traditionally, two members of the same sex finding themselves in a pool of jello are supposed to wrestle, for the amusement of an audience made up of members of the opposite sex. You'd know that if you weren't such a great big girl…

_They blink at each other_

**Sam and Dean:** Aaaaaaaaaargh!

* * *

**Epilogue**

"So, what are you goin' to do now?" asked Bobby.

"Well," Felicity replied, stirring the soup. "I called St Clare's. I used Sam's suggestion to say I'd like to visit Father Roberto Cantante to ask if he remembers anything that might help me track down my birth family. So, if you don't mind, I'd like to stay here for a few days." She smiled. "I've only just found out that I've got two little brothers," she mused, "And a surrogate dad. I'd like to have a chance to get to know them a little."

"I'd be glad of it," Bobby grinned, "Havin' an extra pair of hands to help me with those idjits would be most welcome. Especially if she can play the big sister card." He paused. "What about after that?"

"I'll go back to St Clare's," she told him. "I'm only a couple of weeks into my placement, and I still have a long way to go to finish my novitiate."

"Are you goin' to be in trouble over the drug-testing thing?" he asked; Sam and Dean had related the tale of Sister Jaws, The Sheep And The Goats, and Bobby had laughed out loud.

"Funny thing about that," Felicity smiled, "A couple of people in the class complained, but the bishop was quite impressed with my combination of prayer, compassion and tough love. Sister Germaine's health isn't so good – she's getting on, and she's going to take some time off to recover – so I've been asked to take over the co-ordination and running of the workshops. They need me back, anyway. The 'flu that's been hitting a lot of places is taking its toll."

"No second thoughts, then?" he asked. "Now you know what's out there, and that you're from a family of Hunters?"

"Oh, I have second thoughts all the time," she told him airily, "But Reverend Mother Emily says that's normal, and healthy. She says it's the ones who are utterly unquestioning that worry her." She set the kettle to boil. "Of course, I can invite family to the occasion when I'm first professed. I hope Sam and Dean can make it. I hope you'll come along, too."

"I'd love to," Bobby said, "If I can make it over the threshold without gettin' hit by a bolt of lightning. Fancy that, though, me getting the Son of God as a practically-son-in-law. It makes me want to go and join a bridge club, so I can boast. There was a time, you know, when it was considered to be something of a status symbol to have a person of religious vocation in the family. A few generations ago, it would've been unthinkable for a Hunting family _not _to have a monk, nun or priest dangling from a branch of the family tree."

"Any time the boys are passing through, I can top them up with blessed salt, and organise the consecration of any weapons. And give them as much holy water as they need," she offered. "Out of the store, of course. Not out of me."

"Heh heh, a Winchester taking the veil," Bobby chuckled. "I don't use the phrase 'Now I've seen everything', because I know I haven't, but at least I can say, 'Now I've seen a lot'."

"My Father-in-law-to-be does work in mysterious ways," she agreed, pouring hot water. "I wonder how I managed to stay off the radar for so long?"

"Ask your angel, sometime," advised Bobby. "Heaven is a lot more like Congress than you realise. There's factions, and parties, and conspiracies, and horse-trading. They play the long game - I can't help wonder if one of them realised the potential for you to be a piece on the chessboard, and took steps to make sure you weren't noticed. Crowley, of course, has spies and snitches everywhere. If anybody was goin' to winkle out that info, it would be him."

"Well, he's been dealt with," she stated, loading up the tray. "Having dealt with the King Of Hell, these two should be a breeze, surely."

"Nah, I'll leave 'em to you," Bobby smiled beatifically. "You've been doin' such a good job, I'd hate to muscle in on your patch."

"Thanks so much," she rolled her eyes, picked up the tray, and headed for the stairs.

She knocked gently on the door of her brothers' room. "Are you decent?" she asked, then reconsidered, and added, "Well, I know that you're not, Dean, but are you at least covered?"

She was answered with a small moan, and a sniffle.

She pushed the door open, put the tray down on the table, and moved to open the curtains a little, which drew rumbles of protest.

"Come on, guys," she chided, "It's a lovely day out there, the sun is shining, the trees are rustling, the junkers are rusting..."

"The bacteria are multiplying," croaked Dean, a sniffle turning into a cough.

"It's a virus," corrected Sam listlessly, "Of the Orthomyxoviridae family. Not a bacterium."

"Don't mind him," Dean said hoarsely, "He rambles when he's feverish. Gets cranky and clingy too."

"I do not!" whined Sam. "Nnnnnnng, I feel awfuuuuuuuul, Fic."

"How come we got the priest 'flu?" demanded Dean, sniffling and snorting. "We're not even real priests, but we got the priest 'flu!"

"Just lucky, I guess," said Felicity, as she wrung out and replaced the damp washcloth on Sam's forehead. "Still got the shivers?" Sam nodded miserably. "Here, I made you some camomile tea, see if you can get some paracetamol down."

She moved to Dean's bed, and sat down. "Open," ordered Felicity, wielding a pen flashlight. Dean complied meekly – he didn't want another episode of having his nose grabbed. "Oh, yeah, you're inflamed as hell, but no bacterial interlopers. Here you go," she put a hot lemon drink on the night stand, "And some paracetamol, if you can get them down. Now, it would be good if you could eat something, just a little..."

"Not hungry," humphed Dean, rolling over.

"Me either," grizzled Sam.

"Guys..."

"Everything aches," moaned Dean, pulling the covers over his head.

"Nnnnnnnnnnngggggggg," went Sam, huddling into the bedclothes.

"...So I made you some tomato rice soup," she finished.

Two pairs of eyes popped out of the covers and looked at her.

"I really think it would help if you could force some down," she told them.

"Mom used to make that," Dean recalled fondly, "When I was a kid, when I was sick."

"So did my mom," Felicity recounted, moving to help Sam to sit up, fluffing pillows and settling blankets. "And it always made me feel better. Come on, now you. What's wrong, Dean?" she asked, seeing his face. "You're not still cranky about the nose-grabbing thing, are you?"

"It's... I'm supposed to look after Sammy," Dean said miserably. "I'm not supposed to get sick. I'm supposed to look after my little brother."

"Oh?" she raised an eyebrow. "And who looks after you?" He fell silent. "Knock it off, He-Man," she chuckled, "In a week, I'll be gone, and you can go back to the silent, stoic, emotionally constipated routine. Oh, yeah, Bobby's told me aaaaall about you." She pulled his pillow out, and propped it behind him as he sat up. "You're just gonna have to get used to the idea that you're somebody's little brother now, too," she reminded him.

"In fact, you're the middle child," Sam noted, taking up his spoon. "You're the overlooked one, the unnoticed one."

"That's true, you know," Felicity acknowledged. "He does display symptoms of what's been called Middle Child Syndrome. Low self-esteem, longing for adult attention, disruptive behaviour, it fits."

"The invisible one," Sam added.

"The neurotic one," Felicity nodded. "Most likely to become a serial killer."

"You're Jan Brady, bro," Sam finished.

"She won't be here," growled Dean, stifling a cough, "And I will still, always, be your big brother, baby bro, so don't forget it." He tasted his soup. "Ohhhh, maybe I won't murder you just yet, Fic, this is good..."

"Wow, thanks, I think," she rolled her eyes as they ate their soup.

When they'd finished and were snuggled back down in their beds, Dean asked, "Can you drag a TV up here for us? I'm bored."

"No," she answered, "A TV will make your headache worse. You should rest, and try to get some sleep."

"I don't want to sleep," Dean complained, his eyes drooping, "I was in bed all day yesterday."

"I'm not tired," echoed Sam with a yawn.

"Well, maybe I could read to you," she suggested. "Or, how about some podcasts? I got some from my favourite theologians."

"You're gonna bore us to sleep?" snarked Dean.

"No, no, some of them are really interesting!" she insisted. "I got His Holiness, Desmond Tutu, Henry Rollins, George Carlin..."

Bobby heard the muffled laughter from upstairs. Eventually it quieted down, and his curiosity got the better of him, so he headed on up.

Dean and Sam were snoring gently, with Fic tucking the blankets around Sam where he'd flung them off.

"Dean says they've got the priest 'flu," she relayed, "But that's all it is. It's been doing the rounds of the convents we visited; I guess it's not completely surprising that they picked it up."

"They sure are quieter like this," he noted. "Well, until they wake up. Still, it will give me a bit of peace; I got a Hunter in Ohio up against somethin' that he can't work out, and I'm tryin' to figure out what it might be."

Felicity picked up the tray. "You need a hand?" she asked.

He looked at her. "How's your Latin?" he asked.

"Sane, paululum linguae Latinae dico," she shrugged.

"So, you speak a little Latin?" he chuckled.

She let out a theatrical little gasp. "Vah! Denuone Latine loquebar? Me ineptum. Interdum modo elabitur." _(Oh dear, was I speaking Latin again? Silly me. Sometimes, it just sort of pops out)_

"All right, smartass," Bobby snorted in amusement, "You can give me a hand, and maybe get an education at the same time." He headed for the kitchen to get coffee. "We got some terrible gossips in this part of the world," he told her. "Starting with the Widder Witherspoon who lives next door. Sits at the window with binoculars, I swear. If it gets out that Singer the old drunk has been spendin' time dallying with a nun, people will talk, you know."

"Well, if anybody asks," she grinned. "Tell them that I'm not a nun. I'm only a novice.'

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sister Agnes was knitting again when one of the younger Sisters came into the sunny lounge accompanied by a middle-aged man.

"Sister Agnes?" he asked tentatively, shuffling from one foot to the other.

"Yes," the old nun smiled, moved to compassion by the discomfort on his face. "What can I do for you?"

"Sister," he began uncertainly, fidgeting like a schoolboy. "There's… I'm not quite sure how to say this…"

"In my experience, the best way to say something is just to spit it out," she told him. "The band-aid removal approach, as Reverend Mother sometimes calls it."

"Okay," he seemed to be talking to himself as much as to her, "Okay. Just spit it out." He hesitated again, then sat on the sofa beside her, his eyes earnest.

"Sister Agnes, my name is Stephen Phillips, but I'm adopted. I don't know much about my birth family – but I do know that when I was born I was named Daniel…. Sister Agnes, I think I'm your son…"

_**THE END**_

* * *

*SQUELCH* And so we farewell Petunia the plot bunny, now stomped and gone to join her brother Kenneth in the Great Big Plot Bunny Pen In The Sky, where good plot bunnies go after they have dictated their story and been stomped. The memorial service for Petunia will be held at the Church of St Olav the Thick, with Father Angus and Father Malcolm officiating, and possibly wrestling over who gets the leftover communion wine. Please join us for tea and coffee, cucumber and bloater paste sandwiches and strawberry jello in the church hall afterwards.

That's it for plot bunnies for now, I'm afraid - I wasn't kidding when I said the pen was empty when Petunia reticently began to dictate. But at least that's one more fanfic trope given the ol' Lampito treatment. What others are there? There's a little bunny that I can't catch that is the first Hunt that Lars and Lemmy go on, and I just caught sight of another disappearing under the couch a few days ago - it told me it thought that Dean and Cas should have to pretend to be a couple to follow a Hunt, and Cas would be adorably clueless and Dean would be excruciatingly uncomfortable, and Sam would cringe a lot. But I haven't seen it since.

And to the depraved individual who told me to go and look up 'supernatural pirates' on deviantart - you are enough to make me want to gnaw a hole in the hull of the _Jimiverse_. (It does seem to have a lot of chocolate components - if Willy Wonka had been a pirate, perhaps). That's actually quite a, um, astonishing place, that deviantart. There are a lot of people who are very talented. Also a lot who seem to enjoy drawing half/nearly/utterly nekkid Winchesters. Samgirls should go look up 'Sammyfer', and decide whether you want one for Christmas. I know it startled the hell out of me.

So, you know the drill. Reviews get you onto the crew - did you know that traditionally, jelly wrestling was how pirates settled arguments? - and are incidentally also the Unexpected Soothing Cup Of Hot Beverage Brought To You When You Are Assailed By The Respiratory Viruses Of Life!*

*Yeah, yeah, you can have it brought to you by the Winchester Of Your Choice, if you must.


	24. Special bonus feature: missing scene!

If nothing else, I know what my audience likes. Le sigh. They're depraved, even if they do get shit done.

* * *

_**SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE:**_

**DELETED SCENE FROM END OF EPILOGUE!**

**Bobby (looking around):** Are we on a pirate ship? And what the hell are you two idjits covered in?

**Sam and Dean:** Aaaaaaaargh!

**Bobby:** It looks like strawberry jello.

**Sam and Dean:** Aaaaaaaaaargh!

**Bobby:** Is there a reason you're playing pirate dress-ups? Never thought of you as a ruffles guy, Sam...

**Sam (pouting):** Stupid shirt - somebody's pulled the top buttons off it so I can't do it up properly. AND the ruffles are gunked up with jello.

**Dean:** Don't you complain to me about missing buttons - what sort of a dick wears a vest without a shirt? I look like an extra from a Village People tribute band! The hat is cool, though.

**Bobby:** Real helpful. If I didn't know better, I'd think there was a fickriter hereabouts. _He looks around, then approaches a woman dressed as a pirate who is nibbling on the anchor, and taps her on the shoulder. _ Er, excuse me, who are you?

_Denizens swarm down from the rigging, emerge from below decks, swing down on ropes, etc. They assemble and sing their jingle._

**Denizen Pirates: **We call ourselves the Denizens, we'd like to say hello,  
We'll help you if your Winchesters have been dropped in jello,  
We're DDD&SSS, the _Jimiverse_'s crew,  
We're right here and we're ready and we'll clean them up for you!

**Bobby:** Wonderful! I can't let 'em back indoors like that, so have at 'em, ladies.

**Sam and Dean:** Aaaaaaaaaaaargh!

_The Denizens grab the Winchesters, and haul them to stand before the quarterdeck, where another woman is on hands and knees and licking the deck._

**Sam:** This is terrible! We're in the hands of ruthless Denizen pirates, who are torturing that poor woman by making her swab the deck with her tongue!

**Bosun Blue Orleans:** In fact, that's the Captain of the _Jimiverse_, and the quarterdeck is timbered with TimTam cookies. She does that a lot.

**Darla M:** Cap'n, look what we found!

**Lampito:** Not interested, licking deck.

**Darla M:** We caught them in the net trap.

**Lampito:** Doesn't matter, licking deck.

**Darla M:** You know, the one set to catch anybody who tried to take your Bundaberg rum?

**Lampito:** Waaaaaaah! _She bursts into tears, stomps down to the deck, and snatches the bottle back from Dean._ Give it meeeeee!

**LeighAnnWallace:** So, what should we do with them?

**Georgia:** Maybe we should consult... the Suggestion Box!

**Denizens (waving Nerf swords, pistols, and a couple of rubber chickens): **The Suggestion Box! The Suggestion Box! Let's consult the Suggestion Box!

**LeighAnnWallace:** Ladies, to the Suggestion Box!

_They swarm to the main mast, where a small red wooden box marked SUGGESTION BOX in gold lettering is secured._

**Architaannie:** Call the Officer of the Suggestion Box!

**Denizens:** Call the Officer of the Suggestion Box! Call the Officer of the Suggestion Box! Call the Officer etc. etc. etc.

_The Officer of the Suggestion Box comes hurrying up, putting on her hat of office. It has plastic fruit on it._

**Leahelisabeth:** Aye Cap'n?

**Lampito: **These appalling Winchester persons have been found attempting to steal my rum, yessssss they were, nasty little thiefssssss... my Precioussssss...

**BranchSuper:** We need to consult the Suggestion Box as to what we should do with them.

**Leahelisabeth:** Well, all right. _She unlocks suggestion box, and pulls out a piece of paper_. Ahem. 'Throw Dean overboard for being naughty, and leave Leahelisabeth to deal with Sam for being naughty.'

**Denizens**: Boooooriiiing! Try another one!

_O.o.t.S.B. takes out another suggestion. _

**Leahelisabeth:** 'Throw Dean in the brig for being naughty, and leave Leahelisabeth to deal with Sam for being naughty.'

**Sam:** I'm noticing a disturbing pattern here.

_O.o.t.S.B. takes out another suggestion. _

**Leahelisabeth:** 'Make Dean sit in the corner for being naughty, and leave Leahelisabeth to deal with Sam for being naughty.'

_Another Denizen snatches the piece of paper from the O.o.t.S.B._

**Suze1383:** Hey! It's blank! You've been making these up as you go! _She waves her Nerf pistol menacingly_

**Dean: **Leave Sam to deal with Leahelisabeth for being naughty!

**Sam: **WHAT?

**Dean:** You need to get naughty, Sam.

**Lampito:** Call the Second In Command of the Suggestion Box!

**Denizens:** Call the Second In Command of the Suggestion Box! Call the Second In Command of the Suggestion Box! Call blah blah blah..

_S.I.C.o.t.S.B. rushes up._

**Suze1383:** We need to know what to do with the Winchesters. And the Officer In Charge of the Suggestion Box.

**Captainbartholomew:** Right, then. _Takes out a suggestion._ 'Throw the Officer In Charge of the Suggestion Box overboard, but first give her hat to the Second In Command of the Suggestion Box and make her Permanent Life Member Total Boss of the Suggestion Box.'

**Sam:** Oh, that's ridiculous! _He snatches the paper from her._ Aha! This is blank too! You shameless corporate climber! None of you can be trusted! You are remorselessly depraved Denizen pirates. _He takes out a suggestion. _ 'Let the Winchesters go, take the actual dog collar off Sam, and give Dean the bottle of rum to keep him quiet until we get back to Bobby's'.

**Denizens:** Boo! Hiss! Rigged! Shame shame shame, etc.

**Crowley** **(pushing through the crowd):** Oh, really, children, how difficult can this be? _Takes out a piece of paper. _ 'Tie them to the mast for a tongue lashing'.

**Dean:** That doesn't sound so bad – we've been yelled at by Bobby, so that's not very scary.

**Crowley:** They have no intention of shouting at you, dear boy...

**Dean and Sam:** Aaaaaaaaaargh!

**Crowley:** Something else, then... here we are, 'Make them fight each other: two go into the jello pool, and one comes out...'

**Dean and Sam:** Aaaaaaaaaargh!

**Crowley:** '...Then we drag the other one out too, and get the whipped cream, and...' I feel I should just check at this point, is there any member of the crew who suffers from any form of dairy intolerance?

**Dean and Sam:** Aaaaaaaaaargh!

**Crowley:** Let me see... 'Hang them in chains...'

**Dean and Sam:** Aaaaaaaaaaaargh!

**Crowley:** '... from the nearest four poster bed..."

**Dean and Sam:** AAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

**Crowley:** '...And...' _He blinks in bewilderment._ Goodness me, I will require written confirmation that EVERY SINGLE MEMBER of this crew is over 18 before I go any further with this one...

_**Maybe-moey**__ edges surreptitiously behind a pile of barrels_

**Dean and Sam:** _AAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!_

**Crowley:** Very well. Oh, here's a good one: 'Stab them until they die, then confess to Bobby and make sure he understands that Crowley had nothing to do with it'...

**Anj Emm (elbowing him aside):** Well, that's not going to happen. _Takes out a suggestion._ Ahem. 'Drag Crowley back to our cabin, and draw him like one of our French girls.'

**Darla M, Hesta-Cheryl:** Yaaaaaaaay!

_They hustle a protesting Crowley away below deck._

**Crowley:** Aaaaaaaaaaaargh this suit cashmere you rampaging viragos!

**Dean: **Quick! Now's our chance!

_Dean and Sam leap overboard._

_*splash* *splash*_

_They reappear, treading..._

**Sam:** Cider? Are we swimming in apple cider?

**Dean (paddling in a small circle and spitting out a mouthful):** Sonofabitch! It's not even alcoholic!

**KnightJelly:** What are you doing?-! These are nun-infested ciders we are navigating!

**Dean and Sam:** Aaaaaaaaaargh!

_A cargo net is thrown over the side. The Denizen pirates swarm down it, pull the Winchesters out of the cider, and pull them back up onto the deck._

**KnightJelly:** Oh, now look, they're all wet.

**Elfinblue:** I'm looking, I'm looking.

**Maybe-moey**: Me too.

**Ccase:** Me three.

**Missingmikey:** Oh no! Was that a shiver?

**Sam:** Well, only at the thought of man-eating nuns.

**Dean:** And the thought of a complete lack of alcohol content in the cider.

**Elfinblue:** The poor boys clearly have hypothermia!

**Dean and Sam: **No we don't!

**Elfinblue: **Yes, you do. And the best treatment for hypothermia is...

**Avalonemyst:** Body heat!

**Ccase:** The custard tub!

**Denizens:** Body heat in the custard tub!

**Dean and Sam: **No it isn't!

**Captainbartholomew**: Yes, it is. And you should get out of those wet clothes.

**Dean and Sam:** No we shouldn't!

**Denizens:** Yes, you should_! They brandish Nerf weapons, and a couple of bottles of DairyWhip_

**Dean and Sam:** Aaaaaaaargh!

_The Denizen pirates swarm around the Winchesters, and hustle them off in the direction of the custard tub._

**Lampito: **Well, I have my rum back, at least. Boatswain, have Mister Singer washed and brought to my cabin... Bosun? Mr Singer?

_In the Petty Officers' Mess_

**Bosun TBO:** I brought cards. You want coffee?

**Bobby:** Yeah thanks. Are you sure she won't come down here?

**Bosun TBO: **No, we brew coffee here, and she can't stand the smell. Give it five minutes, and if she can't find you, she'll go back to licking the deck.

_From overhead, cheerful slurping as might be associated with licking and happy little noises of female contentment are just audible._

**Bobby (looking up):** She's a woman who enjoys her chocolate cookies.

**Bosun TBO:** Er, actually, we're right under the custard tub here. Try not to think about it.

_Muffled thumping from other side of the bulkhead_

**Crowley (muffled):** Bobby! Bobby! Is that you, love? Bobby, in the name of mercy, summon me...haaaaaalp! OoooooOOOOOoooooh, madam, your hands are cold...

_Muffled giggling is heard_

_**FIN**_

* * *

That's it until next the plot bunnies bite, so tata until then...


End file.
